


More

by LiberiAdSomnia



Series: More [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberiAdSomnia/pseuds/LiberiAdSomnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year and a half after The Fall, life for Molly Hooper has returned to normal. Well, normal for her. Sherlock, however, has other ideas. Rating is for later chapters. Unbetaed. Reviews welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back to Normal

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This story and it's sequel have already been published to ff.net, but since I received an invite to ao3, I thought I better get everything on here. It doesn't matter that I'm already done with this one, reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's life is a simple one...relatively speaking.

 

"But you're just sitting there."

Molly simply sighed.

The day had begun with relative normalcy. She came in to work several minutes early in order to tackle the paperwork she knew would be waiting. When she received a call that the body of a suspected murder victim would be brought in an hour into her shift, she understood that along with it would arrive a certain consulting detective, his doctor-blogger-best friend, a request for coffee, and a few insults.

It was normal for her anyway.

When said consulting detective did arrive several hours after the body did, however, he was without his best friend, there was a request, but it was of a different kind. The insults were still there though.

"Molly. Take that silly coat of yours and let's go out for Chinese, there's a good one that stays open until two." he had said immediately after barging in dramatically through the morgue's double doors.

"W-what? I'm busy, Sherlock." After everything that has happened in the past year and a half, she rarely stammered in front of him anymore. Helping someone pretend-die did have an effect on people after all. Right now, however, she was completely and properly confused.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "But you're just sitting there."

Molly simply sighed. She turned and faced him, gesturing to her desk. "I'm sitting filling out paperwork on that Mr. Roy that Lestrade sent over." She lifted an eyebrow. "Aren't you here for him?"

He shrugged. "Solved that hours ago. He was walking his pet Labrador. It chased a passing stray cat, he didn't let go, which was very stupid, seeing as he was hardly physically fit to keep up with such a large, energetic breed. He tripped, fell headfirst on a steel-toe boot attached to the unfortunate and understandably very alarmed Mr. Fitz. That he was also a black market art dealer was merely a coincidence." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boring."

"Oh. So that was what that contusion was." Molly smiled. She recalled seeing the corpse's bruised hand, the marks of a thick nylon cord almost cut into the palm, and the curiously shaped wound on the side of it's head, which was the cause of death: blunt force trauma. "So you're all done, then? You didn't leave Lestrade before you've given you're statement again, did you?" She giggled, imagining the detective inspector's exasperated face.

Sherlock merely shrugged, raising an eyebrow when she giggled. "Are you almost done?" He had his hands clasped behind him, and hadn't even bothered taking off his coat and scarf. He just wandered around the morgue, sometimes looking over her shoulder.

Molly gave him a shrug of her own, knowing that it was pointless to argue. A few quiet minutes later, she asked, "Why do you want to go out for dinner? Is John having Mary over again?" She liked John's girlfriend and had become fast friends with the school teacher over the last few weeks.

She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to lessen the stiffness that had been lingering there ever since she'd started the autopsy on Mr. Roy. She continued looking over her notes, deciding which ones can be put off, and which ones need immediate attention. It was nearing the end of her shift anyway, and she didn't fancy staying around any longer on a weekend.

Hearing no response, she turned around and caught Sherlock staring at her, his shoulders tense, a hand gripping the end of a low shelf, worrying his bottom lip. It was a sight she'd never seen before.

"Are you all right?" She asked, standing up and slowly approaching him, worry written on her face.

Sherlock cleared his throat and straightened up, seeming to shake himself. "Of course." he answered tersely. "So, Chinese?"

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Fine." Molly wondered what brought this on, and why he seemed out of sorts that day. After "The Fall" as she, and eventually the press refer to it, happened, she'd pretty much been privy to a view of Sherlock very few have been able to witness. She never wanted to see an uncertain Sherlock again.

As usual, Sherlock seemed able to read her thoughts. "Nothing's wrong, Molly, I assure you. But I am hungry."

"I'll drop you off then." She said, gathering her things and grabbing her coat. Sherlock rarely ate, so even if it was inconvenient, she'd gladly do it.

At this last, she felt a hand tug her elbow, stopping her movements. Surprised, she turned and nearly hit his chin with her head; he was standing flush against her side. The look on his face showed confusion, not something one would consider normal for Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock?" she asked, her cheeks flushing, acutely aware of his hand on her elbow, of his proximity. Her heart sped up, and she knew it was not out of fear. She tried to regulate her breathing.

He tilted his head closer to hers. "I thought that was what people who like each other did? Have dates?" His eyes pierced hers, his brow furrowed in what Molly could only call worry.

"Wait, what?" Molly tried to pull away, but when Sherlock held fast, gently but firmly, she had no choice but to stay where she was...not that she really minded. "Have d... you mean you wanted to go out on a date with me?"

This seemed to confuse Sherlock even more, as his free hand rose to fiddle with his scarf. "I want to. With you, yes." He looked away from her then, his eyes flitting around the room. "Which is obvious by the fact that I asked."

Molly shook her head, chuckling. "You didn't ask, Sherlock. You just came in here and said we'll go out for Chinese."

He let go of her elbow then, and took a step back. She realized she strangely missed it.

"Well then, Molly Hooper, shall we go out for Chinese?" He said, his eyes finally back on hers.

Unsure but at the same time quite thrilled, she gave him a tentative smile and said, "Okay?"

At that, Sherlock grinned, and Molly could swear the morgue grew just a little bit warmer.

* * *

"You do realize you just admitted to liking me?" Molly turned from the driver's seat to look at Sherlock, street lights playing on her features. Sherlock gazed at her a moment. "Yes." was all he said, before turning to look out the passenger side window.

They drove in silence. Molly could tell Sherlock was uncomfortable, and she resisted the urge for idle chatter. She knew he wasn't the kind to participate in those, and besides, she might start stuttering again.

When they arrived, she was surprised to find Sherlock holding the door open, helping her with her coat, and then, once they'd found a corner table, even pulling out her chair for her to sit on. Once they'd placed their orders, Molly gathered her courage and asked. "Ok, Sherlock. What's this about, exactly?"

Sherlock turned a puzzled frown on her. "I already told you, Molly."

"Yes, you said this is a date. But why?"

"I've also answered that." He replied, clearly uncomfortable. Clear to her, at least. To the rest of the restaurant he remained as stoic as ever.

Molly rolled her eyes. "But you don't like me. I mean, not in that way. Not really. So what's this for?" She gave him a knowing smile. "Do you need to fake your death again?" She added, chuckling.

Sherlock surprised her even further by looking genuinely hurt. He'd given her puppy eyes before, to be able to get what he needed when compliments didn't work, but this one, this was too raw to be an act. Her smile dropped, and guilt poked her chest. She was about to apologize when the waiter appeared with their order, placing their food on the table. Once done, she opened her mouth to try again, but he beat her to it.

"I meant it, Molly." When she didn't answer, he continued. "When I said I needed you. Granted, it was said in a different context, and under deplorable circumstances, but the..." he squinted, cleared his throat, and seemed to brace himself before continuing, "...sentiment...remains the same. I did...I do like you in that way." At that, he picked up a fork he'd requested with his chow mein and started poking the noodles.

If anything, Molly became more confused, unable to reconcile everything she knew about Sherlock with the version of him that apparently now exists. They had grown closer after everything that had happened, yes; she can confidently count herself as his friend now, he'd even said as much. But in the process, she'd resigned herself to the fact that it was probably all she'd ever be to him. She should have been elated at this revelation, after all, she'd pined after him for years. All she was at that moment, however, was confused and just a little bit frightened; wary of the man seated in front of her. She proceeded to eat quietly, not knowing what to say.

Their dinner—nearly breakfast—proceeded in silence, the only sounds emanating from their table the clinks of their glasses and Sherlock's fork on the plate. They would steal glances at each other, each one tense and unsure.

After a few more minutes, Sherlock spoke. "I apologize. I realize I didn't think this through." He sighed, leaning back in his chair, intently gazing at her. "I thought the feeling was mutual."

She sat up, startled. Still a bit confused, she nonetheless bravely put a hand on his. "It—it is, actually. I'm just...this is just a bit... _unexpected_ , that's all." Sherlock, relieved, turned his hand so that their fingers intertwined, and a corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

"Please know that I...I've always...always liked you, Sherlock. I don't think that will ever change. But, you can hardly blame me for being confused. John's told me what you said, about how this isn't your area." His hand in hers warmed her, and she wished it was as easy as in her dreams, where he would tell her the things he'd just told her now, and she'd happily embrace him; she'd finally get her happy ending. But Molly had learned the hard way that reality isn't as easy, and not always nearly as sweet. She resisted the urge to just go along with him, to say yes and finally,  _finally_  get what she'd always wanted. Sherlock was her friend now, really her friend, and she worried that if they took this step, and it didn't work out, she'd be back to square one, or worse.

Molly tried her best to get this across to Sherlock, and he, for his part, listened intently, though when she tried to take her hand from his, he silently refused, merely gripping tighter, his eyes never leaving her face. When she finished speaking, Sherlock nodded and finally let go. He stood up, helping her out of her chair, and left a wad of bills on the table. He waited as she donned her coat before leading her out of the restaurant. Molly let herself be led, knowing that Sherlock needed to think, and would speak when he was ready. Once at they were in front of her car, he took the keys from her and opened the driver's side door, leading her in. Before he closed it, however, he lowered his head and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"I'll always be your friend, Molly Hooper. But if you'd let me, I'd like to try to be more." He whispered, his lips brushing her ear. Before she could respond, he closed her door, smiled, and walked away, his hands in his pockets.


	2. Friendly Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives some dating advice.

When John entered the door to 221B he'd been prepared for a great number of things; among them Petri dishes scattered next to his tea things in the kitchen, a client retelling a morbid story, even his flatmate lounging around in his pyjamas while shooting the wall. The silence behind the door held promise: perhaps Sherlock hasn't budged from his room yet, and he'd get to put away the shopping in peace. When he entered and had made his way to the kitchen however, he stopped in his tracks and his jaw dropped in surprise. Of the very many things he'd been prepared for, he had not been ready for  _this_ :

Sherlock was standing, turned to the side, wearing an apron, a book in one hand and the other holding a wooden spoon and busily stirring something in a pot on the stove.

Sherlock,  _wearing an apron._

John put down the bags he'd been carrying on the kitchen counter and stared.

"What?" Sherlock asked, not sparing him a single glance. "Shut your mouth, John. You look like Anderson on a crime scene." He continued stirring the contents of the pot, his eyes scanning the pages of the book in his hand. A cookbook. John didn't even realize they owned a cookbook. Or an apron for that matter.

"Where...?" John asked, still unable to move from his post by the kitchen doorway.

At that Sherlock looked up at him, and rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson. And before you ask why, it's not an experiment. It's for dinner. Fussilli rustica. I require you to taste some, and to tell me what you think. I will need to make sure it is acceptable for a palate other than mine before I pack it."

John moved then, walking closer to where Sherlock stood, savouring the scent of sauteing onions. "Pack it? You mean this isn't for us? Smells good, by the way." He was treated to another eye roll before Sherlock smirked.

"Obviously. I'm leaving some for you and Mrs. Hudson. The rest I'm bringing with me to the morgue."

"The morgue? Why?" John stepped back and seated himself on one of the stools near the kitchen table.

Sherlock turned around, presenting his back to John, his shoulders tense. "To share with Molly."

John grinned. "Oh."

After Sherlock had returned from hiding (and working to dismantle what was left of Moriarty's network), John had noticed the bond that had formed between the consulting detective and the mousy pathologist. At first he'd put it down to the fact that both had shared in the burden of keeping a secret: Sherlock's faked death and subsequent covert mission. John had seen changes in his best friend since his return, but none so great as the one towards Molly. He was now more considerate of her feelings, and although he still sometimes managed to insult her-he was still Sherlock after all-he made an effort to be more polite.

Sherlock turned back to him, "What do you mean, 'Oh.'?"

John's grin grew wider. "You like her." He said, pointing at his best friend. "You're bringing her a pasta dinner you cooked yourself because you like her."

"John, you do realize you've just pointed out the obvious, again. Of course I like her. She's my friend." Sherlock, apparently done cooking, turned off the stove and proceeded to drain the pasta.

"I'm your best friend, and you don't bring me food at work." John pointed out gleefully.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why would I? I'm not courting you."

"Who's courting who?" Mrs. Hudson appeared at kitchen doorway, her hands clasped, eyes positively shining.

John turned to beam at her. "Sherlock's courting Molly." he said, just as Sherlock remarked, "Mrs. Hudson, you sound even more like an owl than usual."

At that, Mrs. Hudson rushed to Sherlock's side, gesturing for him to put down the pot he'd been holding. Once he'd done so, she reached out, holding his face in both of her hands. "My Sherlock! Courting that pathologist! Oooh! Is this all for her? I wondered why you borrowed my things. I didn't realize you'd be old-fashioned. But it's nice! I like that Molly, she's pretty. A bit strange, but I suppose that's part of her appeal to you isn't it? Oh, you'd be perfect for each other, I can tell. You're children will be lovely! Oh! I might actually get to be a gran!"

John spoke up, seeing that Sherlock was growing alarmed at their landlady's rambling. "What? You didn't think  _I'd_  get married and have kids?" he asked, feigning hurt feelings.

Mrs. Hudson walked over to him and patted his knee. "Oh, you know what I mean." She turned back to Sherlock. "Do you need help, dear? We want to impress the doctor, after all. Oh, and you be nice to her now, I like that girl, when you were gone being dead she'd always come around and ask me how I was, and when you came back she wouldn't stop apologizing to me for about a week. You better treat her right!"

Sherlock, still visibly shaken, merely nodded. When Mrs. Hudson had left, however, he turned to his flatmate, and let out a sigh, "I may need your advice."

 _Today just keeps getting better and better. Mary will want to know about this._  John thought. "Advice? From me? Surely not!"

The pout came out. Sherlock stood up straighter in order to tower over him.

"Fine." John raised his hands in mock surrender. "What is it for?"

"Again, John,  _obvious._ "

John grinned. "You want help with Molly." when he didn't receive a reply, he continued. "Why, exactly?"

Exasperated, Sherlock paced the length of the small kitchen. John could see that he was worried and quite serious, but couldn't wipe the grin off of his face. Sherlock pacing in the kitchen wearing a ruffly purple apron was simply too funny. He wished he could film it.  _If Lestrade were here he'd manage it._

Oblivious to John's amusement, Sherlock continued to pace, his head bowed, hands clasped behind him. "I've spoken to her about my intentions. But Molly is reluctant to move into something..." Sherlock appeared to grasp for words "...something  _more_."

John's ears perked up. "At the risk of being told off, let me clarify this: Molly doesn't want to become "more" as you put it, and you want to?" Sherlock nodded, apparently frustrated. "Huh," John continued, "You'd think it's Opposite Day. I never thought I'd hear that from you. Or any of this for that matter."

Sherlock, now visibly worried, busied himself by preparing the packed dinner. "I didn't say she didn't want to. I said she was reluctant. There's a difference."

"Fine. She's reluctant. How do you know this?"

Sherlock explained the events of the previous night. It was apparent that he'd gone over the "date" in his mind many times. John noticed the lack of sarcastic barbs thrown his way whenever he asked the detective to go back over details to clarify a point. When it was over, John realized something.

"You really do like her  _that_  way." He said, quite astounded.

Sherlock looked offended. "What was that supposed to mean?"

John shook his head. "No, it's just, well, we all thought you might be asexual..." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that "...and, well, it's been pretty obvious, to everyone really, that Molly fancies you. You've never paid her any attention before. You even used her crush against her to get access to the morgue and to get body parts. You can't blame us for being so incredulous."

Seeing Sherlock's reaction, John raised a hand, asking for his patience. "Look, Sherlock. I get it. You want to be more than just friends with our patho-  _YOUR_ pathologist..." John immediately changed the possessive to exclude himself when he saw Sherlock's face grow stormy. "...I'd say you were right when you thought about courting her. But it'll help if you made your intentions clear."

"Haven't you been listening?! I already made myself clear!"

"Then make yourself clearer!" John huffed, trying not to lose his patience.  _Really, it's like talking to a five-year-old._  "You've not treated her nicely in the past without having an ulterior motive. You have to establish that your intentions are honourable. Make it so she doesn't think this is some sort of...of experiment. And be consistent! Don't go hot and cold, women don't like that."

Sherlock took a moment, and nodded. "Fine. Here's your pasta."

"She's my friend now too, you know. I wouldn't want either of you to be hurt. If you really start this, you better see this through, there's no turning back. I'm serious, Sherlock." He took a fork from the drawer and ran it under the kitchen sink - one can never be too careful in their kitchen.

Sherlock glared at him. "As am I."

John shrugged, then sampled the meal. "Mm! That's actually quite nice! Some wine would go very nicely with this." John remarked, enjoying his food.

Sherlock shrugged. "You don't have to look so surprised, it's simple science. And Molly only drinks on special occasions, even if she weren't on the graveyard shift she'd prefer soda." He went about putting things away, getting the food into the containers but leaving the lids off to let some of the steam out. "Take Mrs. Hudson her plate. I'm going to get ready." Sherlock hurriedly ran into the bathroom, and John heard him running the shower.

After a good half hour, in which John managed to finish his meal, bring Mrs. Hudson her plate of pasta, and start to wash the dishes in the sink; Sherlock came out fully dressed. He had chosen the purple shirt he knew Molly liked, and found the trousers that were appropriately tight around his bottom -he'd caught her looking in appreciation once. He was shrugging on his jacket when he came out into the kitchen to gather the containers of food and stuff them into a paper bag. When this was done, he went over to grab his coat and scarf, and started to head out of the flat.

"Good luck!" John shouted from the kitchen.

Sherlock's steps on the stairs stopped. "I don't believe in luck!" He shouted back.

"Fine." John answered, "Doesn't mean you won't need it!"

Sherlock paused, and ran up the stairs and in to the kitchen. "You are not to tell anyone of this."

"What? Even Lestrade? I thought you were serious about her." John looked over his shoulder at him, brows furrowed.

Sherlock sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I'm going to tell everyone eventually. It's just...I could do without the teasing."

Surprised, John turned to face his flatmate fully. "Since when did you care about them teasing you at the Yard?"

"I don't care about the teasing! It's just...it's hard enough convincing Molly as it is! Those meddling fools would only complicate it!" came the irritated reply. "Besides, Anderson and Donovan clearly...hate Molly, it's been evident ever since I've returned. They're sure to embarrass her." he added, his voice growing softer and his face betraying genuine worry.

This made John's grin reappear. "Okay, okay. Don't worry. I understand. I won't tell anyone else yet. AND, I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to do the same."

"Thanks." Sherlock whispered, rather reluctantly. "And Mary?"

"What about Mary?"

"You're not telling her, are you?"

John raised his eyebrows, "What? Of course I'm going to tell Mary."

"But you just said-"

"She's friends with Molly now. If I told Mary, she's sure to pass it on to her. And because she learned it from a reliable source," John pointed to himself smugly, "she'll be more likely to give you a chance."

"What? What are you implying? That-"

"Oh shut up, Sherlock, and bring her the dinner already."

Sherlock huffed, turned, and walked out of the kitchen.

John waited until he could hear his friend's footsteps halfway down the stairs before hollering, "It'll be good if you actually brought the food!"


	3. Pasta at the Morgue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as dates go, Sherlock never really goes for the typical.

**Be there in 15 mins.**

**SH**

Molly blinked at her mobile. Sherlock had never informed her beforehand whenever he intended to visit the morgue. He usually just barged in. Biting her bottom lip, she hazarded a reply.

**Why are you telling me this?**

**M**

After a tense minute, Molly's phone beeped.

**I'm bringing food.  
Don't purchase anything.**

**SH**

Not knowing what to say to  _that_ , Molly merely shrugged, and went on sterilizing her tools. She'd just finished the last autopsy of her shift, and was hoping that there wouldn't be any more fresh cadavers sent her way for the remaining couple of hours. She was still puzzled by Sherlock's text _-When am I not puzzled by that man? s_ he thought - but decided that food was always welcome. She'd missed the graveyard shift equivalent of lunch that day, and was dreading the thought of takeaway.

Sure enough, Sherlock swept in to her morgue fifteen minutes later, a Tesco bag containing what appeared to be a soda bottle and plastic mugs in one hand, and a rather large black paper bag in the other.

When the morgue door flew open, Molly paused, taking a fortifying breath.  _You can do this, Molly Hooper. Act natural._  She resisted the urge to laugh out loud. She'd probably never had a more ridiculous notion. She never could "act natural" around him. Turning around, she faced Sherlock, and smiled when she saw what he was holding. "When you said you were bringing food, I thought you meant crisps again."

Molly caught relief in Sherlock's features before his face dissolved into a genuine smile. "No. Not crisps. Pasta." he said, walking over to a clean counter top which faced the wall furthest from the slabs, clearing some paraphernalia, before setting down the bags he was holding and taking out the contents.

The pathologist walked over, curious. She reached out to help, only to have Sherlock brush her hands away and gesture for her to sit on the stool beside him. She watched, fascinated, as Sherlock uncovered two identical plastic containers filled with delicious looking pasta, unwrapped garlic bread with what looked to be homemade pesto, and laughed when she saw the designs on the plastic mugs Sherlock had brought. When he cocked an eyebrow up at her, she explained.

"They have Hello Kitty and Badbatz Maru on them!" she pointed out the red and black mugs respectively.

Sherlock took each one in hand and looked at them intently. "You mean the cat and this rather grumpy looking owl?" When she nodded, "I did not realize they have names. These were the only reusable ones available. Aren't these acceptable?" he asked.

She waved him off. "No, no. They're fine. Why did you want reusable ones?"

Sherlock put the mugs down and mumbled a reply, suddenly keen on opening the soda bottle.

"What? Sorry, I didn't hear that." Molly leaned towards him, trying to hear him better.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I said, 'For when I bring food over.'" He sat up, handed her a container, took out a couple of forks he brought with them, and handed one to her as well.

Not knowing what to say, Molly proceeded to eat. At the first forkful, she closed her eyes and tried but failed to stifle a small moan. Blushing, she avoided his gaze and said, "This is really good! What's it called? Where did you get it?"

Visibly pleased, Sherlock absently nudged his share of the food, "Fusilli rustica. I made it. I'm glad you like it."

"What, you did?" In spite of herself, Molly looked up, meeting his eyes. When he nodded, a tiny smile on his face, she felt herself blush harder. "I didn't know you cook." was all she came up with.

"I didn't." at her puzzled expression, he added, "This is the first time I've cooked...well, anything."

Impressed, Molly nodded, smiling at Sherlock before turning her attention back to her food. She remembered last night's conversation and Sherlock's parting shot to her in the car, and wondered if she dared bring it up first. As much as she wanted to, however, Sherlock had always been unpredictable when it came to... _well, anything, really,_  Molly thought. Instead of saying anything, she took up another forkful and resolved to wait for him.

* * *

After they've finished eating Sherlock declined her offer of help with clearing the remnants of their meal. Molly realized that unlike the previous so-called "date", she'd been able to spend time with Sherlock with relative ease. They'd traded stories. Molly told of her day, and how she'd had to mind students today and had to deal with a fainter literally two minutes into the morgue. Sherlock had laughed at that, and offered an embarrassing story about John, how the army doctor had once had to deal with male strippers who had expressed interest in him during a case they'd taken on. Time had passed quickly, and before she knew it, her watch was telling her that it was time to go home.

Noticing her look at her watch, Sherlock grabbed her coat and walked over to her, ready to help her put it on. "Ready to leave?" he asked in his gentle baritone.

Tilting her head at him, she said nothing, taking her coat from him and shrugging it on. She grabbed her back and checked to see if her keys were inside before walking alongside Sherlock towards the doors. Once outside of Bart's, she turned to him, "Thanks for the food, Sherlock. It really was nice." She offered him a shy smile before waving and turning to walk away.

She'd taken about four steps before she heard him speak, his voice sounding a bit surprised. "I thought I'd walk you home."

Molly stopped in her tracks, unsure, before turning back to face him again. "What?"

Sherlock walked towards her, stopping only a mere inches away, and bending so that his eyes met hers. "I thought I'd walk you home." he repeated, his eyes shining, a smile on his lips, but his brows meeting, as if he was unsure. "If that's all right with you, of course." he added.

"Oh, okay." Was all she could say in response.

They walked down the first block in silence, Sherlock with his hands clasped behind his back, Molly's clutching her bag, fidgeting with the straps.

After they'd turned the corner, both started to speak.

"About last night-"

"Molly, I-"

They both stopped walking then, having turned to face each other. Catching each other's eyes, they let out a little laugh. Molly gestured for him to go first.

Sherlock nodded and continued, his every breath apparent in the cold night air. "Molly, I meant what I said, last night. I understand that my...history is against me, but I assure you, I am being sincere."

When Molly said nothing, he resumed walking, urging her to do the same. "I am, of course, willing to prove my that my motives are honourable, and am willing to change whatever it is about me that displeases you." It was obvious to Molly that Sherlock had become if only a bit nervous; he'd already had to clear his throat unnecessarily twice. "I mean to court you, Molly, until..." at this Sherlock seemed momentarily at a loss for words, which frankly alarmed Molly. Sherlock Holmes was never without words. "...until you deem me worthy."

Mouth agape, Molly stopped in her tracks, staring at the consulting detective. "Sherlock?" He turned back to her, his considerable confidence apparently wavering.

"Yes?"

"Let me make something clear."

Sherlock seemed to brace himself for bad news. "Yes?" He asked again.

"You shouldn't have to change anything to please me." came the answer.

Sherlock quickly snapped to attention. "What?"

Molly giggled. "Idiot." she said, resuming her walk, more relaxed now. "If you really like someone, it's because they are the way they are. Not because you want to change them. If you change, it'll be because you wanted to be better for yourself, it shouldn't be on my demand." she continued, happily taking in the late London sights.

Unbeknownst to Molly, Sherlock's face broke into the widest grin it had ever gotten. Pulling his coat collar up, he swiftly made to follow her.

* * *

"So, how was it?" John asked in lieu of greeting when Sherlock had trudged up the stairs and into the flat.

Sherlock took off his coat and scarf, along with his jacket, and proceeded to the corner where his violin sat in it's case. "You've had too much coffee again. Been talking with Mary about me over the phone."

"Yes. Of course." John said, realizing he'd left the empty mug on the floor next to his seat, and that he was still clutching his mobile. He didn't bother asking how his flatmate deduced that it was his girlfriend. There were more pressing matters at hand. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Oh don't play dumb."

"Fine. It went fine."

It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Just 'fine'?"

Exasperated, Sherlock plucked a string of the violin, waiting for the sound to fade before answering. "Yes. It was fine. In the best sense of the word."

John grinned. "Oh?" He could tell Sherlock was trying to hold back a smile. "She liked your cooking, then?"

Sherlock nodded, "I was thinking of cacciatore."

This confused John. "Sorry? Cacciatore?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "For tomorrow. I was thinking of making cacciatore for Molly."

"Whoa there, Sherlock." John said, thoroughly amused. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do that." John shook his head for emphasis. "I'm not saying you shouldn't cook for her again,  _ever_ _!_ But let her get her mind around tonight first."

Sherlock stood, forgetting his violin. "But I'm  _courting_ her! Surely it would be to my advantage if I repeated the things I did which pleased her. Besides, what would you know? You've never dated Molly. She isn't like the women you surround yourself with."

"What do you mean by that?" John had half a mind to be offended.

Sherlock paced. "Oh, you know what I mean. Molly isn't ordinary. So it follows that her preferences aren't either. You're experience cannot possibly presuppose that you're an authority on  _Molly's_  preferences." _  
_

"Ah, but you're forgetting, Sherlock. I've had experience with women. Far more extensive than yours, since you've had none."

"How sure are you?"

John smirked. " _Please_."

Sherlock harrumphed, walking around the room faster.

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  _This is going to be harder than I thought._ "Sit down, Sherlock. I need to explain this relationship business to you."

* * *

**John tells me I should give you some time to think.**

**SH**

Molly let out a breath. She'd been getting ready for bed when she heard her phone's text alert sound off. Reading Sherlock's name on the screen made her worry, thinking that something bad might have occurred. A minute later, another couple of messages came in, one immediately after the other.

**I was not able to say it earlier:**  
I enjoyed tonight.  
I hope you did as well.

**SH**

**Good night, Molly.  
Morning, rather.**

**SH**

Smiling to herself, Molly sent off a reply before turning her bedside lamp off and curling into her pillows, the smile plastered on her face.

**I did.  
Good night, Sherlock.**

**x M**

Several minutes away, in a flat on Baker Street, the world's only consulting detective wore an smile of his own.


	4. Of Ladies Bonding and Raisins Lacking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consulting detective shows his sweet side

It's been three days since Molly and Sherlock had pasta at the morgue and during that time, Molly has not heard from him, except for the late night text indicating he intended to give her some space to think. For which Molly was grateful. Sherlock has the tendency to overwhelm people.

He had called it "courtship" and Molly was understandably thrilled. She had pined for the consulting detective for years; she knew that what made him so fascinating to her-that he was brilliantly different-would also make things that much more complicated. The chance to clear her head away from his heady presence was a welcome necessity. She spent the time alternating between being giddy at the prospect of being in a relationship with him, and panicking; her various insecurities rearing their ugly heads.

Sitting in front of her desk computer, she glanced up to look at the counter where she and Sherlock had sat eating for probably the hundredth time in three days. Each time brought a smile and a shake of the head as the memory was both pleasant and a bit baffling.  _Who would have thought?_ Molly internally squealed. She'd hoped for the best, of course, but it's not everyday that what you've hoped for becomes potentially achievable.

It had been one of those rare weeks when only a few routine autopsies came in during her shifts, and because of this, she's managed to get caught up with all the paperwork she'd had to put off. She saved all the files on her computer, cleaned up her cluttered desk, and glimpsed at her wristwatch.

 _Three hours to go._  She wondered how to fill her time, vaguely aware of a hope for the doors to burst open and reveal a certain consulting detective walking in blooming in the back of her mind.

Stretching out in her seat, she muttered, "I need all the help I can get." She took out her mobile, and sent off a text.

* * *

"Excuse me." Mary smiled at John. They were currently seated at a park bench across from where Mary taught, having one of their rare lunch dates. She took out her mobile from her pocket. "Huh."

John raised an eyebrow in question.

"Molly just sent me a text. Here." Mary smiled, handing him her mobile.

 **Hi. This is a bit awkward.**  
Sorry to disturb your lunch date!  
Pretty sure John's told you already,  
so can I take you up on that lady's night-thing?  
I need a girl friend right about now.

**:) M**

John couldn't help his grin. "Told you so. Sherlock's managed to shock her even more than usual." He gave her back her phone, repositioning his arm to that it was back around her shoulder. "To think, she once helped him fake his death." The memory wasn't exactly a sweet one for the army doctor, but time and recent developments have helped to erase the last of the ambivalence he felt towards it. He'd still rather it hadn't happened, but acknowledged that mostly good have come out of the event.

Mary crinkled her nose, half amused and half worried. "But I don't know Sherlock as well as you do. She might benefit more from a conversation with you." She said, taking a sip from the vacuum flask filled with brewed coffee John had brought along for them to share.

John chuckled, squeezing her shoulder. "Hmm. But you're both women. It'll be easier for you to empathize. I'm highly biased towards those two finally getting together; I might not give her sound advice. Besides, " He turned to her, "I know the two of you talk about me. I might be tempted to prod for details. You know, for... self-improvement." he winked mischievously, causing Mary to laugh.

 **Sure!**  
Is Friday okay?  
Or is this one of those A.S.A.P. things?  
Either's fine by me. :-D

**MM**

A reply came in about a couple of minutes later.

 **Thanks!**  
I had to take the day shift for one of the doctors.  
Is tonight okay?  
I'll bring the ice cream.  
Er, don't you have plans with John?

**:) M**

"It's a good thing we didn't plan anything." Mary remarked. John had taken the graveyard shift for a week at the A&E beginning that night. It hampered his and Mary's dating life, but he felt he had to make it up to fellow doctors who covered for him every time he'd had to run off on a case with Sherlock. John nodded, busy chewing his sandwich, his other hand busy slowly tracing circles on his girlfriend's shoulder.

* * *

Molly breathed a sigh of relief when she'd received Mary's assurance.

She'd already admitted to Mary that she envies her just a little bit. Mary was far more adept at socializing, and comfortable in her own skin. It really was not a surprise that John and she had hit it off. She was just the little ray of sunshine John had needed when he was left grieving after the Fall. When Sherlock had returned, she'd been one of those who'd encouraged John to leave the flat he'd moved into and back into Baker Street to once again share rooms with his best friend.

Add to that the fact that she'd viewed John's adventures with Sherlock with almost as much fascination as the army doctor himself. She'd be scared and worried whenever a particular one became too dangerous, but was mostly encouraging, and avidly listened to John's retelling of their exploits. Even Sherlock had reluctantly given her his stamp of approval, and had rarely actively tried to disrupt his best friend's dates.

 _I would do well to take a page off of Mary's book._  Molly had made up her mind: she'd encourage Sherlock's efforts and wait and see how everything progresses.  _I owe myself that at least._

She decided it was as good a time as any to get lunch, and stood, walking over to the doors, where she almost bumped into the affable Mike Stamford.

"Hey Molls," Stamford beamed at her. "There was a delivery guy at the receptionist's just now. Brought these," he handed her a coffee cup and a small brown paper bag. "Said these were already paid for. Thought I'd spare him the shock of the dead bodies." Stamford chuckled. "Oh, and here's the note that came with it."

Molly eyed the food cagily. Ever since the business with Jim, she'd been wary of surprises. Only when Stamford showed her the envelope with the familiar handwriting did she eagerly take them from him.

"Thanks, Mike. You didn't have to."

He waved her off. "It's nothing, really. I was on my way here anyway. It's nearing the end of the month, inventory and things." He rolled his eyes, telling her he'd really rather he didn't have to do it. "Go eat that upstairs, it's time you took a break anyway."

Waving goodbye, Molly briskly walked off, her hands clutching her lunch close to her chest.

* * *

**_Thought you might need these. SH_ **

Once Molly had settled on a corner of the hospital cafeteria, she opened the small cream envelope that had simply said "Doctor M. Hooper" in Sherlock's familiar scrawl, and took out the folded note inside. She read it over at least twice, before taking a sip of her coffee.

 _He remembers how I take it._  Molly smiled, and turned to open the brown paper bag. The smell of cinnamon immediately wafted out, and her mouth watered. Inside was a rather large cinnamon bun, and she smiled, remembering a day during Sherlock's hiding when she'd managed to convince him to eat lunch along with her.

_"You are aware that what you're doing is rather unhygienic." Sherlock had pointed out._

_They were seated in her small kitchen, and after she'd handed Sherlock's sandwich to him, she'd proceeded to pick apart the cinnamon bun she'd purchased for herself, taking out the raisins._

_She smirked, not glancing up to look at him. "Excuse you, I just washed my hands."_

_Sherlock took a reluctant bite of his sandwich and glared at her. "You should've bought something else if you hated raisins that much."_

_Molly looked up at him then. "But I like these." she prodded the bun for emphasis, as well as to irritate the not-so-dead-detective seated before her. "Dad and I used to eat these for lunch all the time. Only he'd be the one to take out the raisins."_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes then. "Sentiment." he spit the word out as if he'd been cussing._

_She glared back. "Just eat your sandwich."_

Molly laughed at the memory, and was about to get up to fetch a fork to help her disassemble the bun when her mobile sounded off with a text.

**That one doesn't have raisins.**

**SH**

* * *

"Hi!" Molly held up a bag containing the ice cream she'd brought with her when Mary's door opened, a big smile on her face.

After Mary had ushered her in and they'd gotten settled in the living room, Mary proceeded to bombard her with questions, teasing Molly when she told of Sherlock's parting shot in the car, and gushing when she detailed the meal the two of them had shared at the morgue.

"Who knew Sherlock Holmes was a romantic?" Mary shook her head, taking a spoonful of the vanilla bean ice cream. "So what's stopping you? Aside from the obvious, I mean." Between Molly and John, Mary had a pretty clear idea of Sherlock's treatment of her "Pre-Fall" and during Sherlock's brief stay with Molly at her flat.

Molly sighed. "I told him this already, and John's probably said as much." She stared at her spoon. "It took me a pretty long time before I could face Sherlock without stammering like a school girl... and he's my friend now. I want this. I really do. And I plan to let this, whatever this is..." she gestured with her spoon.

"Courtship. That's what he calls it." Mary pointed out.

Molly giggled, "Yes, that. Gosh, we sound like a pair of old-timey teenagers. We're both in our thirties!" she went back to staring at her spoon, brows wrinkled in apparent concentration. "I plan to let this happen. But that doesn't mean this doesn't scare me." She smiled.

Mary took a hold of her hand and squeezed it. "Molls, the good things always do."

* * *

Declining Mary's offer to sleep over, Molly did an unusual thing and hailed a cab. She was in a good mood and decided to forgo the Tube for her version of a little pampering. While on the way back home she sent Sherlock a text.

 **Didn't get a chance to text you earlier.**  
Thanks for the coffee and raisin-free bun.  **:)**  
 **I didn't know they had those.**

**x M**

She received a reply just as she was nearing her flat. Molly waited until she'd gone inside before reading the message.

**They don't.**  
 **Owner owes me a favour.**  
 **Glad you liked it.**

**SH**

Molly was still debating with herself on what to say in response when she received another message.

**What does the 'x' stand for?**

**SH**

She stifled a giggle, her eyes widening, and hiding her face, quite forgetting that she was quite alone in her darkened flat. She was still standing behind the door and had not even bothered to turn the lights on when she'd come in, she'd been to eager to read his texts. She hadn't realized she'd been adding those to her 'signature' in her texts to him lately.

**Don't worry about it.  
Just something I do.**

**M**

Sure enough, Sherlock saw through this.

 **You didn't text with one of those before.**  
T **hat last one you sent didn't have it either.**  
 **Your gift had three on the tag.**

**SH**

_Uh-oh._ Molly knew he was referring to the gift she'd given her that ill-fated Christmas they'd spent together at Baker Street. She decided she was too embarrassed and tried to deflect the conversation.

 **It's late. :)**  
Thanks again for the free lunch.  
 **I'll make it up to you next time you're at Bart's.**

**M**

Standing in the middle of the sitting room in Baker Street, Sherlock hollered to John, who was up in his room getting ready to leave for his shift at the A&E.

"Yes? What is it?" John, used to his flatmate's moods, walked down the stairs, tugging at his shirt collar.

Sherlock turned to him, disgruntled. "Why won't Molly answer my question?"

"I don't know. What is it?"

"I asked her what the 'x' meant." Sherlock showed him their texts.

John's eyebrows almost met his hairline. "You're not serious? You really don't know?"

"Would I be asking if I did?" Sherlock glared at his mobile, as if he could frighten it into answering him.

John shook his head, and grabbed his coat. "Someday, you'll have to go over the particulars of your childhood and subsequent adolescence with me, Sherlock."

"Just answer the question, John!"

John stifled the urge to laugh. The poor bloke wouldn't appreciate it. "It stands for a kiss, you git."

After the words came out of his mouth, he saw Sherlock pause, and then walk towards the window. He had his back turned towards John, but the army doctor saw his face clearly reflected in the glass.

Sherlock was trying, and failing, to suppress a pleased smile.

That night, Molly received one last text before she fell asleep.

**I've been informed of the symbolism.  
Good night.**

**x S**


	5. The Green-Eyed Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Molly discusses the results of an autopsy below. I don't think it's that bad, but if you're in the least bit squeamish, be wary.

"Hey, Molls!" Lestrade called out as soon as the morgue's double doors opened.

Molly looked up at the silver-haired detective and smiled. She'd just finished the autopsy on Mrs. Ruby Ackerman, and handed over the case file to the Detective Inspector. "Hello, Greg! You're in a good mood." She remarked, leaning in to offer a brief hug. They'd been friends for years, and were quite comfortable around each other.

He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the sound of the doors opening and footsteps hurriedly entering the room. They both turned to look, and sure enough, it was Sherlock, his coat flaring dramatically as he strode in while John followed at a much more subdued pace.

"Hello! Are you here for Mrs. Ackerman too?" Molly greeted them cheerfully, stepping away from Lestrade and walking over to them, blushing slightly at the sight of Sherlock. She'd remembered how she had squealed when she'd read that last text he'd sent her a couple of nights ago. She wasn't sure what she was expecting him to do when they again saw each other, but she was certainly not expecting this.

Sherlock was scowling at her, his eyebrows creased, a look of genuine hurt in his eyes. It only lasted for a few seconds, after which Sherlock was back to his usual cool demeanor. "Sorry to interrupt, Doctor Hooper, Lestrade." he said, walking over in the direction of the slab.

John threw Molly a confused look, to which Molly just shrugged her shoulders. If Lestrade noticed anything amiss, he did not let on.

Sherlock proceeded to unzip the body bag containing Mrs. Ackerman's corpse. "The tox report will confirm what I've been repeatedly telling  _Anderson._ " he said with usual vehemence, "This wasn't an accident. This was murder. Yes, she was found floating in the pool but she didn't drown. Doctor Hooper, kindly inform the Detective Inspector of your findings." He didn't even turn to look at her, merely gestured a hand in Molly's direction.

_So it's back to Doctor Hooper now, is it?_  Molly cleared her throat, approaching the slab and pointing to the folder Lestrade held. "It's all there, Greg. She had fluid in her lungs, yes, but otherwise was severely dehydrated, her urine was acidic and granular, and her liver and kidneys are shot. All consistent with poisoning by acetylsalicylic acid." While she spoke, she stood next to Lestrade, leaning over to point out to him where he'd find the information in the file.

"What? Aspirin?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Couldn't that have been accidental overdose?"

Sherlock tutted, removing his scarf and flinging it haphazardly over a stool, his coat following. He stood with his hands clenched, jaw working furiously, and even John wondered at his temper. When Lestrade had insisted that they follow him from the Yard to the morgue, Sherlock had had to stop himself from grinning. John was used to his friend's sudden mood swings, but was at a loss as to what had caused this one.

"She lived in a home, Detective Inspector, where medicine is strictly regulated and properly administered by trained professionals. Why would an 80-year-old woman suffering from dementia be granted access to  _aspirin_ , of all things? Did she have a hang-over from all the drinking she did slumming with her friends in a pub the previous evening? And why should she be anywhere near the pool area? Residents like her were kept safe in the other wing of the facilities, to help prevent such a thing from happening. Think! She is a wealthy woman, without any relatives, yes, but surely someone would stand to gain from her death."

John chimed in, "I've seen her in the papers. She was the one who had willed her entire life's savings to a shelter for cats."

Molly squeaked, "Oh, so that's why her name sounded so familiar! She was the Crazy Cat Lady!"

Lestrade turned to her, realization dawning, "What?  _That's_  her? The one you were telling me about the other day?" At Molly's nod, he shook his head, amused. "Sorry about your hero, Molls."

" _RIGHT._ " Sherlock said, louder than strictly necessary, letting the 'r' roll and prolonging the 't'. "Get your least incompetent men down there and interview the staff. Pay particular attention to those who had been hired within the last month. Even you couldn't possibly miss the culprit."

Used to Sherlock's condescension, Lestrade merely shrugged, nodded to both of the men, and reached over to lightly grip Molly's arm before walking out of the morgue. Sherlock bristled at the sight.

John pursed his lips. "Why don't we interview the staff ourselves?" he looked up at the consulting detective to find his gaze locked on Molly, who had her back turned to them, busily closing up the body bag and putting away the case file Lestrade had left behind.

Sensing that his absence might be more helpful at this time, John cleared his throat and announced he was leaving. Saying his goodbyes to Molly, he quietly pulled on Sherlock's arm and whispered, "I have no idea what this is about, Sherlock, but you better behave."

"I'm not a child!" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Could've fooled me." John said, so that only Sherlock could hear, before marching out of the morgue.  _Heaven help you, Molly Hooper._  He thought, just as the doors closed behind him.

Once John had gone, Sherlock walked over to his usual spot and sat down in front of a microscope, took out a small plastic bag from his pocket and began preparing slides. Molly paid him no mind, assuming that his mood will pass, and simply went on about her tasks for the day; sterilizing her tools and putting them away. Just as she was done setting aside her saw, the one she'd saved for last, she heard Sherlock cough loudly and repeatedly.

Frowning, Molly turned and walked towards him, stopping next to where he was seated. "Are you okay? Do you need a glass of water?"

She knows she shouldn't but the sight of Sherlock simultaneously coughing and trying to glare at her was so ridiculous, she had to fight the urge to laugh. When his coughing didn't stop, she moved toward her desk, took out one of the mugs he'd previously brought, and filled it with water from the carafe she kept filled so that she didn't have to go out whenever she got thirsty. She came back to hand it over to him. When he'd taken it, she stood behind him gently thumping his back, hoping to help alleviate whatever it is that got him started.

He frowned at the mug before quickly downing its contents, wincing as he fought to keep from coughing as he did so. After a while, it ceased, and he set the now empty mug beside the microscope. Molly moved to grab it, but was stopped by Sherlock's hand on her wrist.

"Did you choke on something?" Molly blurted out, not sure where this was going.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes on her wrist. "Nicotine gum."

She made a weak attempt at humour. "You better keep to your patches, then."  _This is awkward. Really awkward. Really, really awkward._ Molly's heart was racing. She was sure Sherlock could tell. "What was that about? Having a bad day?" she added, scrambling to fill the silence. "You're more..." when Sherlock's gaze met hers, she hesitated a moment before continuing. "...uhm, well, more  _exasperated_  today than usual."

Sherlock's scowl returned, and he let her hand go. Standing up, he picked the mug up once again and made a show of examining it closely. "You were embracing Lestrade." He said simply, as if that explained everything.

_No. You can't be..._  Molly didn't let herself finish the thought and instead asked out loud, "Uhm, yes, Sherlock. He's my friend. So?"

Sherlock didn't look at her, "You don't hug me." his nose crinkled in irritation. "Or John." He added hastily, his expression betraying that he didn't think Molly hugging John was any better.

"Greg and I have known each other for a long time, Sherlock. He even worked under my father." Before his sickness, Molly's father had been a detective himself, which had helped foster Molly's interest in pathology. "He and Dad used to go out for a pint after work, and when dad...well, Greg helped through all that."

"But you've known me long enough." Sherlock retorted.

"Yes, but you don't like that stuff." Molly pointed out, a hand on her hip and a frown on her face.

Sherlock gave up on the mug and instead started pacing. "That doesn't preclude the fact that I might want one from you! I told you, Molly. I  _am_  willing to change. You know this isn't my area. But I've researched, listened to John ramble on and on about how  _he_ had managed to date so many women over the years, and I still don't know whether I'm doing this right or not. You have to at least give me a hint!"

When he turned away from her to resume his pacing, Molly could no longer hold herself back. She quickly walked over to the agitated man and hugged him from behind, clasping her hands over his stomach and leaning her head against his back. "Is this hint enough?"

Taken aback, Sherlock stopped in his tracks, letting his hands hang awkwardly by his side. He sighed, not quite sure how to react.

"I told you, Sherlock. I don't want to change you." Molly chuckled, and Sherlock reveled at the sensation it brought. "If you change, I'd rather it was because you were experiencing personal growth, not because you think it would please me. And also," she tightened her grip, "you've been very sweet; cooking dinner and then bringing it over here, walking me home, getting lunch delivered, sending texts. But I don't want you to do it if it makes you uncomfortable. You're my friend first, and whatever happens next, whatever  _this_ is? I'd like for us to be still be ourselves through it."

All was silent for several moments as they both let that sink in. The figure they cut was a startling contrast of warmth against the cold sterility of the morgue.

Molly was about to let go of her hold when Sherlock moved, putting both of his hands over hers, leaning back into her embrace. "Thank you, Molly." He said quietly.

"You're welcome." she whispered back.

* * *

That night, Molly lay in bed unable to sleep. She still couldn't believe she'd had the guts to do what she did.  _Still_ , Molly decided,  _I would do it again in a heartbeat_. She lifted her hands out above her, staring at them. She couldn't believe how they could look the same and at yet feel so...different. She ignored the part of her mind that suggested the word "empty".

* * *

Sherlock, for his part, lay on the sitting room couch, eyes closed with his hands beneath his chin, the need for nicotine forgotten. All he focused on was cataloging the feel of Molly's hug and her breath on his back. He had always liked lingering in his mind palace, but he found that the rooms had become more pleasant, more welcoming, than before.

When John returned home from Mary's, he found his flatmate still on the couch, his hands clasped on his stomach, sound asleep.


	6. Out of the Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly makes a new friend, and Sherlock gives in to an impulse.

Molly was on her way out of Tesco, having done a week's worth of shopping. It was her day off, and she'd decided to take the opportunity to restock her pantry. On the way to her car, she noticed a young boy dressed in only a thin shirt and brown shorts that were both dirty and too big for him, shivering in the cold, seated on the curb. Not thinking twice, she approached him, carefully walking towards the boy while making sure that he saw her approach, a small smile on her lips.

"Hello." Molly said, as she stopped a couple of steps away from him. She crouched on the ground, meeting the boy's brown eyes.

The boy looked intently at her, and Molly could see him shaking. "He-hello." He answered timidly, his teeth chattering.

Molly resisted the urge to take rub the boy's shoulders. She didn't want to frighten him. "Why are you out here in the cold? Have you lost your coat?" She asked gently.

To her dismay, tears started running down the boy's face. "I-I've lost m-m-my mum-m-m-my!"

"Oh dear," Molly took her coat and wool scarf off, and offered it to the boy. "I'm Molly. Why don't you take these, it'll help keep you warm a little bit. What's your name?"  _I wish I'd worn a hat too._  Molly thought.

"C-co-l-lin." The boy walked over towards her and stood still as Molly buttoned him up in her coat, leaving the sleeves down so that it covered the boy's hands; which she then stuffed in the coat's pockets to help keep him warm. She then wrapped her scarf so that it covered his head, neck and reddening face, only leaving the boy's eyes visible. "Can you breathe properly?" Molly asked, to which the boy nodded.

Not wanting to stand around in the cold longer than necessary, she led him back into Tesco.

* * *

"So you didn't find his mum?" Sergeant Aberforth, a tall, rotund man with a balding head, bushy brown eyebrows and an impressive handlebar moustache asked Molly.

She shook her head in response.

After going back in, she and the boy had gone straight towards the customer service desk, and had asked to page for Colin's mum. An hour passed, during which Molly made sure the boy was keeping warm by purchasing a nice hot cup of chocolate milk. When no one had come forward for the child, she had decided to bring Colin round to the Yard herself, thanking the clerk who had taken it upon himself to stand by the exits and ask every single leaving customer whether they had lost a boy named Colin.

Once they arrived, and all throughout Sergeant Aberforth's questions, Colin had stuck close to Molly, refusing to let go of her arm. He sat, wide-eyed, answering the sergeant with a soft, frightened voice.

"What's your mum's name?"

"Lily."

"And your last name?" At this, Colin looked to Molly.

"He doesn't know, Sergeant. We've tried earlier when we were paging for his mum." She chimed in, reassuring the boy by putting a hand on top of his and gently squeezing it.

"I see. And how old are you?"

At this, Colin lifted a hand, slightly struggling with the sleeves of Molly's coat, before holding up three fingers.

After a few more questions that unfortunately did not glean more useful information, the policeman looked up from his notes. "Well, you can leave him here, Doctor Hooper. Someone from Welfare will come around in about half an hour to take him, have him checked over at hospital, and make sure he's properly warm and fed in the meantime."

Hearing this, Colin became alarmed, looking up at Molly while he wrapped both his arms tightly around the side of Molly he could reach.

"Can't I do that? I mean, look after him while you try and locate his mum?" Molly asked. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving the boy alone, frightened and confused.

Sergeant Aberforth beamed at her. "Of course. He'll still need to have a medical exam, but you can take him home after if that's what you like. We'll let you know how everything goes."

Thanking the sergeant, Molly guided Colin from the seat, following a policeman who was to accompany them to the A&E. They were walking down the hall when a familiar voice sounded behind them.

"Molly?"

Molly turned around and there stood John, who had stopped on his way out of Lestrade's office and caught sight of her. "Oh, John. Hello."

The doctor walked briskly towards her, a worried frown on his features. "Is something wrong? What are you doing here?" He slowed down considerably when he saw the boy hiding behind the pathologist. "Oh, hello. And who is this?" John smiled, trying to reassure the visibly agitated child.

Before she could answer, another set of footsteps sounded, hurrying in their direction. Sherlock appeared and strode up to Molly, stopping only when his face was a hairsbreadth away from hers. He looked worried for a moment, his eyes scanning her features. Apparently determining that there was nothing amiss, he looked down at the boy and took a careful step back.

"John can look at him for you." Sherlock said after a moment, gesturing in his direction. "That way you won't have to wait longer than necessary."

John, puzzled, looked from Sherlock to Molly and back again, silently asking for an explanation. As Sherlock did, Molly turned to the officer who had been waiting patiently for them and asked if it was possible for John to do the assessment himself; to which the man said he'd have to confirm with the sergeant, and took a moment to consult with him. A few minutes later he returned, answering in the affirmative.

Sherlock put a hand on Molly's back and led them down the hall. "We'll take your car."

* * *

When they arrived at the A&E, and while John was conducting his medical assessment, - Colin had agreed to let go of Molly, having warmed up to John on the short ride over –- Molly seated herself in the small, thankfully empty waiting room. Sherlock rushed off without a word. He returned a few minutes later with a cup of coffee, and stood before her, gesturing for her to take it.

"Thanks." She said, wrapping her fingers around the cup. "I hope I'm not interrupting one of your cases."

"We'd just been in to see Lestrade about the last one. It's done. This is my new case."

Sherlock sat on the chair immediately next to her, took off his scarf, and proceeded to wrap it around her neck. Perhaps testament to her weariness, Molly didn't even flinch at the action, although a slight blush coloured her cheeks. She nodded her thanks, taking small sips of her coffee.

"This is hardly a seven." she said instead, smiling up at him. He merely shrugged in response.

Apparently not yet done, Sherlock opened his coat and carefully spread one side to cover Molly, drawing her closer to him. Sighing, Molly didn't say a word, and instead leaned against him, grateful for the added warmth. Her coat and scarf were still with Colin, and she had frankly forgotten about the cold in all the excitement.

"I've sent Wiggins to look around. He'll give me a report tonight." Molly felt rather than heard Sherlock's voice, they were seated so close together. She had learned about the Homeless Network after the Fall, and had met Wiggins a few times. She knew that they can help make the search for Colin's mum much faster.

She yawned, and felt Sherlock's arm tighten around her. "I'm okay," she said with another yawn, "just a bit tired."

Sherlock tilted his head to look at her. "You're being very kind to the boy. But you have work again tomorrow."

"Mike's already agreed to cover for me. I'm taking tomorrow off to take him clothes shopping. I don't have anything he can wear."

He lifted an eyebrow. "And what if it takes longer?"

"Gosh, I hope not! But if that happens, I thought I'd take him with me to Bart's. There's a creche there, at the third floor, I think, so he can keep preoccupied. I'll just look in during my breaks, make sure he's doing okay." She stifled another yawn.

Sherlock shook his head in amusement. "I see you've made a habit of taking in 'refugees'."

Molly had to laugh at that. "I wonder whose fault it was that I got started in the first place?" It was her turn to shake her head. "But seriously, I can't let poor Colin be taken into welfare. He's so little! Besides, he reminds me of my little brother a bit. If you'd seen those big brown eyes of his up close you'd want to take him in too." She continued wistfully.

When she finished speaking, Sherlock's free hand abruptly took the coffee cup from her hand, set it down on a seat a safe distance away, and surprised her by lifting her chin up and meeting her lips with his in a gentle kiss.

Startled, Molly froze, eyes wide, unsure of what was happening. Sherlock had closed his eyes, his arm around her shoulders carefully pulling her closer, while the hand that had lifted her chin was now lightly cupping her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing her cheekbone gently. Molly closed her eyes at the sensation, heart racing, mind forgetting everything else that was not Sherlock. Sighing into the kiss, she reveled in the warm feel of his lips against hers. She found herself lifting a hand to clutch at his shoulder. All she knew was that she wanted him closer.

The kiss remained chaste, tender in a way that both calmed Molly down and made her head spin. Sherlock, for his part, struggled to rein himself in, not sure if this was happening at the right place and time, only knowing for certain that it was happening with the right woman.

After letting it linger, Sherlock reluctantly broke their kiss. He leaned his forehead on hers, opened his eyes and stared straight at her, his blue eyes piercing. Molly was surprised to see the consulting detective's alabaster skin flushed. "Sorry. I couldn't help myself." he said, gasping for air, his baritone noticeably lower.

Shaking her head slightly, Molly smiled up at him, taking his hand from her cheek in both of hers and looking down them, suddenly bashful, the rush at their kiss warming her more effectively than the coffee. "There's...there's no need to apologize."

Hearing no response, she looked back up at Sherlock, and found him with his eyes closed, a look of concentration on his features.

"Is-is something wrong?" Molly asked, wondering at his reaction.

Sherlock didn't open his eyes. "Shh. Be quiet, Molly. I'm recording this in my mind palace." He said, his hand in hers turning to envelop them tightly.


	7. Useful Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly finds she likes her new label.

"Aside from slight dehydration, Colin is fairly unsca-" John stopped in his tracks, his face reflecting first surprise and then pleasure at the sight that greeted him. He had been perusing the chart he was holding while on his way to the waiting room, where he assumed that Sherlock and Molly would be seated, anxious to hear an update on the boy's status.

He hastily took out his mobile and took a picture.

Molly, John could tell, was fast asleep, her head caught in the crook between Sherlock's neck and shoulder, mouth slightly parted and forming a small "o", Sherlock's scarf around her neck partially obscuring her face. Her hands were caught in one of Sherlock's own, his other lightly gripping the shoulder where he'd wrapped his arm around her. His chin rested on her head just above her temple, his brows slightly creased.

John walked nearer and cleared his throat loudly.

Sherlock's eyes popped open, and he raised an eyebrow at him in question.

"I've finished the assessment. A nurse just accompanied Colin to the loo." John explained, raising the hand that held the chart.

Molly stirred and blinked up at Sherlock, then blushed profusely when she saw John. Gently disentangling from Sherlock, she straightened up, a hand rubbing her eyes. "How is he? I'm not sure how long he'd been standing in the cold when I'd found him."

John smiled at her reassuringly. "Just a little dehydrated, and undernourished. He's okay otherwise. Sergeant Aberforth says you're taking him home with you?" Molly nodded. "Then you'll need to sign for him. Come on, he's probably looking for you already."

Sherlock stood. "I'll take over the driving. By the way John's been repeatedly running his hand over his hair I'd say he'd be making a stop at Mary's." John nodded. "You might want to change into one of the spares you keep in the lockers, John, that one has some spatter from the man whose nose you broke this morning. I don't suppose Mary will be thrilled at the sight." Sherlock then turned to Molly. "Keys." He reached out a hand, palm up, and waited.

"You don't have to bother with the driving, Sherlock. You must be tired, but I can drop you off then head home." Molly protested, fiddling with her bag and worrying her plait.

An eyebrow quickly shot up the consulting detective's face, "Keys." was all he said, slightly shaking his open hand for emphasis.

* * *

Minding what John had said about Colin being undernourished, Molly took the time to purchase a sandwich and some juice for the boy. He managed to nibble half of it before promptly falling asleep in the backseat. Once they arrived at Molly's, Sherlock carried him out of the car and up the stairs into the flat.

Molly had decided to let the boy spend the night in Sherlock's old bedroom, the smaller one that he had used during the few months he'd stayed with her after the Fall, just across the hall from hers. Once he'd laid the boy down on the bed, Molly stripped Colin of his dirty clothes, and put one of her old shirts on him as well as socks for his feet. She then wrapped him in one of her spare blankets before tiptoeing out of the room, making sure to leave the door slightly ajar so that the hallway light can seep through.

Back in the living room, Molly turned to Sherlock, "Well, he's out, poor thing!" Suddenly self-conscious, Molly fidgeted; staring at her feet, both hands in her pockets. "Thanks for helping me out."

Sherlock, who had been checking his phone for messages, turned to look down at her. "John's back in Baker Street and says Wiggins has just arrived." He gave her a small smile before walking towards the door.

"Oh! Don't forget this." Molly untied his dark blue scarf from around her neck and followed him. She held it out, expecting him to take it.

Instead, Sherlock bent his knees and leaned in, and Molly had to reach out and wrap the scarf around his neck herself. She couldn't help a small giggle, and caught sight of a corner of Sherlock's lip lifting in amusement, his eyes shining in the dimly lit room.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked, as Molly began looping the scarf behind his neck.

"Hmm?" She asked, smiling, her eyes focused on their current task.

"Are we..." he cleared his throat, "in a relationship now?" he asked, carefully.

Taken aback, Molly's hands froze. She slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. A peculiar wish making itself known:  _If only_ _I had a mind palace of my own._  She wanted to preserve this view and be able to go back over it in complete detail whenever she wished. He was, quite simply,  _beautiful._  The angles of his face were thrown in sharp relief in the dim lighting, his hair windswept; a stubborn curl straying over his right eyebrow. His bottom lip was partly caught between his teeth in his uncertainty, and his brows were furrowed as he waited for her to answer. When she looked into his eyes -  _I still can't decide what colour they are, s_ he thought. - she saw worry, nerves, and a cautious hope. She caught her breath. Standing before her was someone who was somehow both different yet the same, and in that moment, she became certain.

"Yes." She whispered, "Yes, we are."

* * *

Molly barely paid any attention as she prepared for bed that night.

_Girlfriend. Sherlock's girlfriend. And he's my boyfriend of course. My boyfriend. Sherlock._

Feeling like a giddy teenager, Molly jumped into bed, fiercely hugging one of her pillows, trying her best to suppress a squeal.  _I must look like an idiot._  She grinned to herself, closing her eyes and trying to recall both the kiss at the A&E and their moment in her living room.

She abruptly sat up, feeling a bit guilty. There she was, happily recounting her day, when across the hall a little boy slept; who had spent the same one cold and frightened.  _But you've waited long enough for this._  A part of her mind argued,  _you're allowed to_ _celebrate a little._  With that the grin returned, and she flopped back down on the mattress, burying her face into her pillow as her mind's eye brought back images from the day.

"Boyfriend." She mumbled happily, and she wondered whether she'd calm down enough to get some sleep.

She highly doubted it.

* * *

Unlike Molly, Sherlock had no trouble pulling up a vividly detailed memory from his mind palace, and along with each one came what he thought as inadequate simulations of the sensations he had experienced during the event. His lips seemed to recall some of the warmth from their kiss-their first, he realized, taking note of the date, place and time.  _The one at Christmas does not count._  He thought, the memory of his unintended cruelty to her still made his stomach clench involuntarily. When he had decided to admit that he... _felt..._ for Molly, he had also decided that he would go about it the same way he approached everything in his life: in a methodical yet relentless manner, not stopping until he got what he wanted.

He had taken it for granted that she liked him back. But Molly had been wary, and her words to him that night, during "the date", had revealed to him how much he had been lacking. It was then that he hit upon the idea of courting her. He would prove that he's a suitable choice, even if it was largely unfamiliar territory for him.

The incident with Lestrade at the morgue had shaken him. The thought that Molly might have eyes for someone other Sherlock's had roused an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation in his chest, and he had reacted poorly. In the end, it was Molly's patience and uncanny perceptiveness that had saved him from himself...again.

Today he had kissed her - _really_  kissed her- for the first time. He was never one for sentiment or physical intimacy, but the thought that by accepting him, Molly had granted him the promise of something more made his heart race in anticipation _._ This was not his area, but he trusted Molly, and she had explicitly informed him of her trust in him. If he were to venture into the unpredictable world that sentiment opened up, he could not imagine taking anyone else with him. _  
_

The taxi slowed to a halt, and Sherlock reluctantly pulled himself out of his thoughts. He paid the cabbie, a sizeable tip included, before hurriedly exiting. He strode into the flat and up the stairs to 221B, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the peg by the door before walking over to his customary seat in front of the fireplace.

"Speak." He waved his hand over to Wiggins absently and before dropping to the seat cushions.

Wiggins was a boy of about fifteen, with shaggy brown hair hidden under a dirty green beanie. He had on a couple of threadbare scarves, an old ratty jacket over layers of shirts, oversized trousers and brown trainers. He had been sitting on the couch sipping tea John had handed him. When Sherlock entered the room he carefully put the cup down and stood at attention. "We 'aven't 'eard a thing 'bout a mum. But there's a bloke down Richmond Park's says 'e's lost 'is nephew. Name's Phil." He coughed, "Should we bring 'im round?" he asked, handing a note to Sherlock which contained a detailed description of the man along with his exact location.

"No." Sherlock answered simply. "I'll find him myself tomorrow. You make sure he stays put." He glimpsed at the note, nodded, and handed a folded bill to the boy. "Here. Finish your tea, and then you may leave."

John, who had been sitting in the kitchen during all this, spoke up, "And thank you, Wiggins." He added, glaring at his flatmate. Sherlock ignored him, his hands on his knees, staring at the fire.

Once the boy had gone, Sherlock stood up and walked over to the window. "John."

"Yes?" The former army doctor was busy putting away the dishes in the sink.

"Your phone."

Used to his friend's laziness and too tired to argue, John sighed, wiped his hand on a paper napkin, and walked towards the fireplace mantle where his mobile was propped next to the skull. "What do you need it for?" he remembered to ask, his hand with the phone in it hovering over Sherlock's waiting palm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The photograph."

"What photograph?"

An exasperated sigh. "The one you took at the hospital."

Not entirely surprised, John held his phone back. "What? I wasn't going to show it to anyone."

Scowling, Sherlock plucked the phone from his hands. At John's protest, he spoke, irritated "I'm not going to delete it. And you've already shown Mary."

"What do you need it for, then?" John asked, a hand rubbing the nape of his neck.

Sherlock took his own phone out and merely hummed in response. After fiddling with both phones a bit, he threw back John's and turned, walking towards his bedroom.

"You realize you've still got your scarf on?" John called out to his friend's retreating back.

The bedroom door slammed and John, puzzled, looked at his phone, hoping Sherlock hadn't deleted the photo. When he pushed the home button however, the screen lit up and showed a notification that made him chuckle and shake his head in disbelief:

**1 of 1 file/s successfully sent.**


	8. Demands Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a sinister turn.

Molly stood up from her haunches and gave Colin a smile, looking over the little boy's appearance. That morning, he and Molly had gone clothes shopping, and Molly had insisted on running the clothes through the washer before letting him put any of them on just in case.

When the clothes had finally dried, she had put him in a small green T-shirt, gray shorts , green socks and an eye-patch. He had seen it in a store display and had turned to her, saying "Can I be a piwate?" and she could not help herself.

"That's better!" She ruffled his hair and hauled him up to sit in one front of the kitchen table. "I hope you like spaghetti." Colin beamed at her words and nodded. "That's a relief; I wasn't sure what little boys liked to eat!" Her little brother had two girls whom she'd look after sometimes, and while she was sure children's preferences weren't all that complicated, she'd also met some very picky eaters. Molly wasn't exactly sure how she managed to have the authorities allow Colin to stay with her, but she would make sure he ate well while he did. She was just about to sit next to Colin to help him eat when a knock sounded from the front door.

"Wonder who that is?" Molly asked Colin, encouraging him to speculate.

Colin quirked an eyebrow, and then his eyes widened, "Piwates!"

Molly laughed, "I guess we'll find out! Stay put, okay? I'll check." She winked and left Colin's side, walking to the front door.

The knocking persisted, and Molly had a hunch as to who was behind the door. The face she saw as she looked through the peephole confirmed her suspicions.

"Sherlock!" she said, as she threw the door open. "Hello."

"And John." The former army doctor grinned at her from behind the consulting detective.

Molly chuckled and shook her head, ushering them in. "And John, of course. I didn't know you two were coming over. Have either of you had lunch? I've made spaghetti; I think there's enough for all of us." She motioned for John to take a seat and the doctor complied, having hung up his coat on one of the pegs behind the door.

Sherlock strode straight in, took off his coat and put it up next to John's, then walked towards her expectantly.

Molly looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Sherlock, who'd been hovering over her quietly, merely frowned and eyed his scarf.

Confused, Molly turned to look at John, and found the doctor shaking his head in amusement.

"He hasn't taken that scarf off since last night, and he wouldn't tell me why until this morning when I laughed at him for wearing it with his pyjamas." John snorted, unable to hold himself back. "I tried to take a picture but he threatened to chuck my laptop!" he added, wiping his face with his hand in his mirth.

"What?" Molly shook her head in disbelief. "Why?" she turned to Sherlock, a half-smile on her lips.

Sherlock merely scowled.

_If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you were being sentimental._  Molly stood on her tiptoes and took Sherlock's scarf off him.

"Mowy?" A plaintive voice sounded from the kitchen.

"It's just Sherlock and John, Colin, sorry!" When Sherlock frowned at her, she whispered, her smile widening to a grin, and looked to both her visitors. "He was expecting pirates." She made to walk to the kitchen, but a hand on her wrist stopped her in her tracks.

"John, why don't you go over there and mind Colin for a minute. I need to update Molly on our progress."

The doctor, a bewildered look on his face, nonetheless stood up and walked towards Molly's kitchen. "Maybe I'll get some of that spaghetti too, if you don't mind." He added, before disappearing.

"Help yourself!" Molly managed to call after him before Sherlock pulled her in.

She saw his eyes briefly before warm lips landed on hers. Partly due to surprise at the sudden movement, Molly clutched at Sherlock's collar, and pulled him closer. The kiss he gave her was nothing like the one they shared the night before. That had been chaste and sweet, but this, this kiss threatened to overwhelm her.

Sherlock gripped her hip and the other hand rose to hold the back of her head, gently tilting it so he could gain better access as he leaned even closer. She gasped at his actions and Sherlock took advantage, giving her bottom lip a gentle tug before drawing it in and licking it.

Molly, who had had her eyes closed, opened them in astonishment but lifted her hand to the side of his neck, caressing it. The hand that was on his collar slid down to his chest and travelled around to his back, her fingers spread open.  _I could get used to this._ She thought, her eyes fluttering close.

Their kiss continued, and neither seemed willing to be the first to surface. It was tender, yet exploratory, and each realized they had been waiting for each other all day.

"Hmm." Sherlock reluctantly pulled himself off of Molly to catch his breath. "That's better."

Molly, immensely pleased, felt a blush flood her cheeks. She let go of her hold on him and took a step back. She'd stopped being such a shy school girl around him in the events following the Fall, but it didn't mean Sherlock was no longer able to reduce her to a silly besotted teenager.

Paying Molly's embarrassment no mind, Sherlock took her shoulders in his hands, turned her around, and started marching her towards the kitchen. "Wiggins has found out about a potential relative of Colin's, and John and I went to talk to him this morning…" he began, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze.

* * *

Sherlock and John sat across the kitchen table from Molly and Colin. The detective had just finished telling her about Wiggins' report the previous night, and started eating the food she'd set down in front of him once he'd sat down, wanting to please her.

"And we've arranged to meet with Phil at the Yard." John added, having already finished his share of the pasta. "We thought we'd go with you there tonight."

Molly turned to Colin. "You heard that? They found your uncle."

Colin simply nodded before turning to Sherlock. "Ahw you a piwate?" He asked; he had lifted his eye patch and was staring at him with wide eyes.

"What?" Sherlock asked, and put his fork down. "You think I'm a pirate?" When Colin nodded, his lips quirked to a small smile and he shook his head. "Sorry, no. I'm a consulting detective."

John chortled , and the boy turned to look at him instead. "Ahw YOU a piwate?"

Molly reached out a hand to wipe off sauce from Colin's cheek. "He's a doctor, remember?"

"But he can be a piwate too!" Colin insisted, reaching over the table to take a hold of a glass of orange juice Molly had set near him.

She smiled and guided the boy's hands as he brought the glass to his lips. "Yes, if he wanted." She answered, a hand playing with the boy's curls. When Colin had finished his food, she set him down from his place at the table and let him wander off to the sitting room to play with the pirate ship she'd bought him along with his clothes.

"You're really good with him." John observed, taking a sip of some juice of his own. "I bet you'd make a great mum."

Molly blushed, "I've had practice with my brother's kids. But instead of living a life of piracy, one wants to be a princess and the other wants to be a dinosaur." She rose to clear the table, brushing off John's attempts to help. Sherlock, to Molly's delight, had finished his meal, and was avoiding his best friend's hints at him to offer her help by slowly sipping his drink.

"Lazy bastard." John muttered under his breath to Sherlock, who pretended not to hear.

Another knock sounded and John stood up and went to open the door. A minute later he returned to the kitchen followed by Lestrade, who had his hands in his coat pockets and a grave expression on his face.

"Hey Greg." Molly put the dishes she'd been moving to the sink and reached out to pull Lestrade in a friendly hug borne of habit. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock's face grew stormy. "Yes, do explain,  _Detective Inspector_." He said, spitting the last two words out acidly. John, who was used to his friend's mood swings, merely chuckled, and sat down, waiting for whatever was about to happen next.

Lestrade, confused, frowned at Sherlock before looking down once more at Molly. "Aberforth said you'd been looking after a kid named Colin since yesterday?" When Molly nodded, he continued, moving to stand in the middle of the kitchen. "And you," he turned to face the two men, "you've found the kid's uncle? Aberforth said you'd arranged for them to meet later today."

It was John who answered. "Yes. It was strange, actually. The man, Phil-Phil Barker, he was really worried about the boy, but insisted on meeting him at the Yard later on instead of us bringing Colin to him immediately."

"He wanted to make sure of the boy's safety." Sherlock chimed in.

This startled Molly. "What? Why would he need to do that?"

"And how did you know?" John added, askance.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started pacing. "When he saw us approach him this morning his hand strayed toward a lead pipe he had hidden in his trousers. It was not until we were standing quite near and had introduced ourselves that he had let go of it, he probably recognized us from the papers. So, clearly, he was guarding himself against a possible attack. When he learned that Colin had been found and was assured that he was in the best possible hands, " he motioned to indicate Molly, "he visibly relaxed, and then insisted on a meeting at the Yard instead of us bringing him his nephew."

"Are you sure he's the boy's uncle then?" Lestrade asked, hands on the kitchen table.

Sherlock nodded. He did not bother explaining how he knew

Molly walked back towards the sink, trying to keep her hands occupied. She wasn't sure why, but she had grown worried. "Why do you want to know? And why isn't Aberforth with you? This isn't your division, is it?"

"Yes, I was wondering that." John, getting a dreadful sense of foreboding, leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees.

Lestrade nodded. "They've found Phil Barker dead on the banks of the Thames about a half hour ago."

Molly gasped. John scrambled to stand from his seat. Sherlock stopped pacing abruptly. "What?" the two men said, speaking one after the other.

Lestrade held up his hands. "There's more."

Molly's knees grew weak, and she reached behind her, feeling for a chair. Sherlock was next to her in an instant, guiding her towards a chair with a hand on her back, and standing near. Lestrade noticed, but said nothing; the only indication of his astonishment at Sherlock's behaviour is a slight wrinkling of the forehead.

"What is it?" John asked, urging the detective inspector to continue.

"Whoever killed him left a message." Lestrade fished out his mobile, pulled up a picture on-screen and handed turned it so that it was visible to the other three.

It showed the picture of a man on his back on the ground, apparently dry except for where the feet met the water. His shirt was open, and there on his chest was carved a message that brought a chill down Molly's spine.

_Give me back my Colin._


	9. Bidding Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arrangements are made, and Molly has to say goodbye.

"You're staying at 221B." Sherlock insisted, scowling at Molly from where he stood in the middle of her sitting room floor. He had just come back from the crime scene, and had confirmed that the man who was found dead was the same one he and John had talked to earlier in the day.

John nodded; he was both weary and worried. "I know it's not terribly convenient, Molly. But you have to admit, having Colin with you makes you a target." Seeing Molly's hesitation, he added, "If you're not worried for yourself, then do it for Colin."

That got to her. "Fine. Just…just give me a moment to pack, all right?"

Relieved, John nodded. "Where's the kid?"

"He'd just finished his bath. We were getting him ready for bed." She answered wearily.

"Have you told him about his uncle yet?" The doctor continued, seeing Molly's stress in the tension on her shoulders.

Molly shook her head no. "I didn't know how. When you left with Lestrade he started talking, remembering things from that day I found him at Tesco. He said Phil was with him and his mum, and that when his mum had disappeared inside a black car, Phil told him they were playing hide and seek and that it was Colin's turn to go inside and hide."

Sherlock rushed to stand in front of her, his nervous energy back in full force. "I think I know what's going on. Hurry up and pack your things." He pushed Molly in the direction of her bedroom and turned his head to look at John, "You go help Colin with his things. Hurry!"

* * *

They found the British Government waiting for them in the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson had left Mycroft sitting comfortably in Sherlock's seat, a plate of biscuits and a cup of tea on the table beside him. He nodded in John's direction, and stood up when Molly entered with the sleepy Colin.

He gave her a crooked smile. "Miss Hooper."

"It's  _Doctor Hooper_. Honestly, brother, you're age is showing." Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, turned to take Molly's and Colin's and hung them up. "Molly, you and Colin can take my room." Seeing Molly about to protest, he added, "I'm not planning on getting any sleep anyway. I'd much rather stay on the couch."

Molly nodded, and John led them towards Sherlock's bedroom.

Left alone with his brother, Sherlock walked over to the window and grabbed his violin, putting it upright on his lap and plucking at the strings thoughtfully. "Tell me about Lily Barker."

John had hurried back out, followed by a stressed looking Molly. The doctor strode into the kitchen to check whether they had any food leftover for dinner, while Molly hesitated, unable to decide where to sit.

Sherlock raised a hand and waved her over, moving to make room for her on the couch. When she obliged, he sat just a little bit closer, so that their arms and shoulders were touching even as he kept his hold on his violin.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother's actions but said nothing. "She used to work for MI6. She was recently relocated when a… _project…_ she was involved in was compromised."

Having searched for food in vain, John had settled for a cup of tea and sat himself down on his chair across from Mycroft. "You mean Colin's mum was one of your people?"

The older Holmes frowned. "Not directly." He took a sip from his cup. "I was not informed of the child's existence until this morning."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh, this is marvellous. All that access and one of your own manages to hide the fact that she has a child." He turned to his brother, "You're slipping, brother dear."

Mycroft bit back a retort. "She does not report to me,  _brother dear_ ," he smirked, "I was merely called in when they failed at their mission and I had to clean up the mess that was left behind."

_Strange family._  Molly thought, a crease on her forehead. She'd had plenty of opportunities to interact with Sherlock's brother during the time of his supposed 'death'. It had not lessened her amazement at the two of them. While one had invented a unique job for himself to be able to utilize his genius, the other was apparently a very powerful man who managed to run the country while remaining anonymous.

"She's disappeared, hasn't she?" Sherlock said, turning his attention back to his violin.

John coughed, nearly choking on his tea. "You don't mean…?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly, squinting his eyes. "No, no! She didn't kill her own brother. The carving on the chest was too messy, the man was strangled before he was dumped, and the body would have been too heavy for her to move alone. The evidence at the crime scene contradicts the presence of anyone other than a single assailant."

"Who did, then?" Molly chirped in, tense with worry.

Mycroft held out a manila folder he'd had tucked to his side. "When Lily Barker disappeared from custody, I had my people pull up information on her. Aside from her son and her brother, there's a former lover; a man named Horace Williams. Apparently he was a soldier she'd met about four years ago. He was dishonourably discharged from the Army a few months into their relationship and she left him about a week after that."

The consulting detective hummed as he glanced over the file, which included a picture, and handed it to John, who had gotten up from his seat to stand next to him, reading over his shoulder.

"He does resemble Colin a bit." John said, and to which Molly agreed. Those eyes were unmistakable. "Have you located him?"

"We know where he was last seen, yes." Mycroft took a sip of his tea. "I've been informed that Ms. Barker heavily objected to being reloca- - -" he was cut off when his phone rang. He frowned, but answered the call. After listening for a few moments, he clicked it and turned back to them. "They have Ms. Barker in custody. She is downstairs at the moment."

Molly glanced at Sherlock anxiously. Noticing, the detective spoke. "Don't bring her here. We'll talk to her in the car."

Mycroft nodded and stood, taking his umbrella and leading the way out. John followed, with Sherlock right behind. Molly, uncertain, rose but stayed put. She wanted to meet Colin's mum, but was hesitant to leave the boy alone in the flat.  _He might wake up,_ she worried _._  Torn between curiosity and concern, she didn't notice Sherlock come near until he was standing directly in front of her.

"Stay here with Colin." He said, softly. "I'll let you know how it goes when we return." He crouched so that their eyes were level and his hands were on her shoulders.

When Molly nodded, he turned to go, but she reached out a hand and pulled on his sleeve. "Thank you." She said, and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Sherlock nodded, pleased, then walked down the stairs and outside to where Mycroft's customary black car waited, parked at the curb.

* * *

Molly woke up the next day and panicked when she saw that Colin was no longer beside her on the bed. Before she could call out, however, Sherlock walked in and stretched out beside her, his hands under his chin.

"He's outside, watching telly with John." He remarked, eyes on the ceiling.

"Oh." Molly's heart thundered. She was in bed with Sherlock Holmes. Granted, the circumstances were hardly romantic, but  _still._  "What time is it?" She asked, trying to calm herself down.

"Nine o' clock." He answered then turned his head to look at her. "She's going to take Colin, Molly. She's waiting outside." Sherlock eyed Molly's features, watching closely as he saw her features go from sleepy to nervous to surprised and then to saddened. He knew that the short time she had spent with the child had been enough to make her grow fond of Colin. She looked almost as bad as this when her cat, Toby, had died of old age a month ago, and she had had that cat for years.

"But how do you know that it's okay for Colin to be with her?" Molly asked, desperately. She felt horrible asking the question. Lily Barker was Colin's mum, after all.

Sherlock sighed, and took her hand in one his own. "She didn't have anything to do with her brother's death. She didn't even know he'd died until we told her last night. Horace Williams, on the other hand, had disappeared, and Lestrade said Horace and the uncle were seen together shortly before Phil was found dead. Apparently he'd had a history of violence which pervaded even his relationship with Ms. Barker. She'd left him when she found out she was pregnant, but did not inform her superiors of his threats since she'd been too afraid to lose her job. They had been explicitly instructed to avoid romantic relationships, and she didn't know any other way of making money. She'd been living with her older brother Phil, so as to have someone look after Colin whenever she was gone for work." He paused, and looked at her intently.

Molly nodded, urging him to continue.

He turned back to face the ceiling. "When Mycroft's men took her to have her relocated, she'd escaped at the earliest opportunity to try and take her son with her. The only reason she hasn't been given Colin yet is because we needed to verify her account and make sure everything checks out. That and the fact that John insisted you'd want to be able to say goodbye properly." He looked at her then. "Sentiment, I suppose."

"Yes. Thanks." Molly nodded. She knew that she had no right to demand even that, they weren't even related. "When he goes with her…" she hesitated, she knew what the answer would be, but needed to hear him say it. "…will we be able to see him again?"

When Sherlock shook his head, Molly could not help her tears.

Alarmed and unsure what to do, Sherlock sat up and gathered her in his arms, awkwardly patting her back. She'd cried in his presence before, but he had never had to comfort her, at least not in his present capacity as her boyfriend.

"I know it's silly. I'm sorry." Molly covered her face with her hands. Sherlock agreed, but decided to bite his tongue. John would have been proud.

* * *

Molly stood on the curb outside of 221B, waving to the black car which held Colin and his mum. Mycroft had had Anthea take Lily Barker to Baker Street that morning, and it was all Molly can do to keep her composure as she said goodbye. Feeling Sherlock's presence behind her, she turned, and smiled at him through the tears which had been threatening to spill over ever since Colin had embraced her tightly, thanking her for the pirate ship and asking her to keep his eye patch safe for him.

"Are you sure you want to go back to work today?" Sherlock asked, his hands clasped behind him, his face in a frown.

"Yes. I'll be fine." She insisted. She gave him a small kiss goodbye, and then walked to her car and opened it, slipping in behind the steering wheel. She'd decided to leave early so that she could drop by her flat and have time to herself; she didn't want to cry in front of Sherlock twice in one morning.

Arriving at her flat, she walked around to the back of her car to take out the bag of clothes she'd packed for herself. She was opening the door to the back seat when a hand grabbed her from behind and she felt the cold blade of a knife press against her throat.


	10. Official Statements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People have a tendency to underestimate Molly, to their regret.

"Give me back my Colin!" A gruff voice spoke in Molly's ear.

Molly's heart raced, blood rushing in her ears, making her momentarily unable to focus. She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep, calming breath to steady herself.

"I- I don't know what you're talking about." She whispered, trying to stop her body from shaking.

The man's hands tightened around her. "I know you have my son, you bitch!" He took a step back, intending to bring Molly into the alley right next to her flat.

_Focus!_  Molly scolded herself. _Don't give in, stay calm and assess your situation._  She tried to see whether there were people whose attention she could catch, but the man's hands tightened around her, sensing her intent.

"Make one sound, one squeak, and I swear I'm going to slice your neck and carve your tongue out!" The man said through gritted teeth, still slowly dragging her away. She knew that if he managed to get her alone in the alley, her chances of surviving this encounter would very quickly diminish from not likely to nil.

Not for nothing was Molly the daughter of a police officer, as well as the only sibling to a younger brother.

_Your size is your advantage._ Molly could swear she heard her father speak, as if he was standing right next to her.  _People, men especially, will take it for granted that because you are small, you are weak. Prove them wrong._

As the man- Horace Williams, Molly was certain- took another step back, she took advantage by suddenly lifting both her feet at once and leaning in, grabbing the arms that were wound around her neck and shoulders. Caught by surprise, Williams overcompensated by spreading his stance, his hands slightly loosening their grip as the instinct to clutch at something for balance won out.

_Remember, speed is key._  Taking a deep breath, Molly held his arms tight and quickly lowered herself, planting her feet on his and using her hold on his arm for leverage as she slipped out of his arms and turned around so that she faced him.

A wild look in his eyes, Williams lunged, but Molly dodged, and although his fist managed to make contact with the side of her face, the impact was lessened by the fact that she had quickly followed through with the heel of her palm rushing up from below to crush her assailant's nose.

_Never attempt to out-punch a man stronger than you._  Her father's words echoed in her ears, fortifying her resolve.  _And they'll expect a woman to always go for the groin, so don't aim there first thing._   _And don't stick around to see if he recovers: immobilize, then, RUN!_ She kicked his left shin as hard as she could, then turned and ran; her long plait flying behind her.

_Why is this street deserted?_ She thought. It was the middle of the day, and yet there were very few people about. Fighting the wave of hysteria that threatened to overcome her, Molly kept running as fast as she could, trying to decide her next move. She was quickly running out of breath, but didn't dare stop or look back. She checked in her pockets for her phone, and gave herself a small slap on the cheek when she realized she must have dropped it in the struggle.

When she felt as if her heart would burst with her efforts, she rushed into the open door of a corner bookshop, and alarmed the store clerk by jumping over the counter and crouching down on the floor.

"Please!" she pleaded with the gangly teenager who stood gaping at her. Wheezing from her efforts, she clutched a stitch on her side while her other hand fished for her wallet, showing the clerk her Bart's ID. "I-I need you to…" she gulped, trying desperately to catch her breath "…call for the p-police. Please!"

The boy nodded, taking hold of the telephone receiver which sat next to the register. "Thank…you." She managed to say as she took in huge gulps of air.

After the obliging youth had dialled the number, Molly motioned for him to give her the receiver and asked for DI Lestrade, still slumped down on the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her in exhaustion.

"Molly?" When she heard the detective inspector's voice, Molly, though still out of breath; started sobbing.

She could hear panic enter Lestrade's voice. "Molly? What's wrong? Did something happe-" His question was cut off and a familiar voice took over. "Molly? Where are you?" Molly registered alarm in Sherlock's usually smooth baritone.

"Sher-Sherlock!" she gasped, trying to stop herself from shaking. "Please come get me. H-hurry, Sherlock!" She managed to get out before finally breaking down, her petite frame shaking. The teenager kindly took the telephone from her hands and spoke into it, explaining who he was and where Molly could be located.

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay? Can you tell us what happened?" Lestrade asked as he stood with his feet apart and his arms crossed, leaning down to where Molly sat by the ambulance doors, being attended to by John, who was the only one Sherlock would allow to touch her.

Molly nodded, giving the DI a small smile. "I'm fine." She said, and launched into her story. She was not surprised at their astonishment when she had described how she got away from Williams. She'd never bothered to tell anyone about how her father had insisted that both his children learn self-defence. After her mother's death giving birth to her brother when she was five, her father had taken to bringing her to work with him whenever he could, and him teaching her, and eventually her brother, the basic techniques which had been a way for the three of them to bond.

She'd never had to use her knowledge before now, but had remained interested, watching martial arts shows on the telly and sometimes reliving the training whenever she and her brother spent some time together. Molly only grew more avid when she learned that Jim from IT was a psychopathic criminal mastermind.

Lestrade waved over a younger police officer as Molly wrapped up. He ordered her to bring along two others to search the area around Molly's flat, giving her the address and a picture of Williams which Sherlock had handed him that morning at the Yard; he and John had been in to give Lestrade an update on Colin.

The consulting detective himself was standing to the side with his hands in his coat pockets and his eyes focused on Molly, eyeing the small cut she had on her cheekbone, fury evident in every line of his body. When she hissed as John dabbed it with a cotton ball, Sherlock's eyes flashed, and his fists clenched inside his pocket. He said nothing, however, settling for giving his best friend his most venomous glare.

A few minutes later Lestrade's phone rang. "Yes? What is it? Oh, you've found him?" He listened as the person on the other end explained something, and his face split into a grin. After ringing off, he faced the three, shaking his head with amusement.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock asked impatiently, his scowl growing worse.

Lestrade pointed to his mobile. "They've found Williams, AND…" he turned to raise an eyebrow at Molly, "….someone managed to literally break his leg."

* * *

John whistled at the sight that greeted him.

Molly needed to still give her statement and Sherlock had refused to leave her side. John, eternally curious, had decided to come with them. That, and the fact that he was worried his best friend would manage to actually kill Horace Williams if the opportunity presents itself. He could see the rage simmering just beneath the surface of Sherlock's features, and although he believed that Williams deserved to get whatever he had coming, he did not want to risk his friend being jailed.

When they arrived at the Yard, they headed straight towards Lestrade's office, and on the way they saw Horace Williams handcuffed and slouching on a bench, a police officer on either side with their hands on each of his shoulders, holding him down.

His left leg was in a cast, but what had earned John's whistle was the sight of the burly man's nose, almost unrecognizable due to the fact that it was sitting on the man's face in not quite the right angle, and had turned a disgusting mixture of red, green, and purple.

"Right. Remind me never to get on Molly's bad side." John muttered to Lestrade, who chuckled in response.

It was fortunate that the former army doctor had just turned to speak to his companions then, because had he not, he would not have been able to hold back Sherlock, who had lunged in Williams' direction, his teeth bared and a murderous glint in his eyes.

"No! Sherlock! Stop!" John wheezed, turning so that he stood in front of the furious consulting detective. The doctor grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, trying to push him back, while a startled Lestrade helped, trying to reach around Sherlock to grab his waist from behind, at the same time shouting at the officers in charge of Williams to take him away and into one of the interrogation rooms.

Sherlock surprised them both by getting out of their hold. He turned to chase after Williams, his blood ringing in his ears, when Molly's voice broke through the red haze that clouded his vision.

"Sherlock! Don't! Please d-don't." Molly said, softly pleading with him, her stutter stopping him in his tracks. He turned and walked back towards her, then dragged her into an empty office and slammed the door closed.

Once they were inside, Sherlock pulled her to him, trying his best not to crush her in his embrace but failing. He bent so that his face was on her shoulder, a hand on her nape and an arm wrapped around her torso, slightly lifting her.

Molly could feel him shaking, and tried to soothe him, sinking her hand in his hair and rubbing the other down his back. "Sherlock?" she whispered, and felt him take a deep, shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry." He turned and muttered in her ear, his eyes shut tight, trying to stop his mind from conjuring images of Molly with her throat cut, with the same familiar message carved into her, eyes open and empty. He had experienced extreme fear a very few times in his life, and this, this was by far the worst. "I'm sorry."

Anxious, Molly, took Sherlock's face and tried to make him turn. "No. This isn't your fault." She said firmly, looking into his eyes. "It's nobody's fault but Williams'" when she saw his eyes harden, she placed her forehead against his and pleaded. "This isn't your fault and I don't blame you. But I-I don't want you to take the law into your own hands…" she could not hold back, and tears ran down her face, "…please Sherlock. Please. We've only been together for a little while. I'd like to have you for longer. Please." She closed her eyes and willed herself to say it, to tell him exactly how she feels whether he was ready to hear it or not. "Sherlock. Please. I love you."

Something seemed to flare in Sherlock's chest at her words. "Molly, I-"

The door burst open then, and in walked a very confused, very worried Lestrade, followed by John, who looked anxious and sheepish at the same time.


	11. Opposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One would think Molly's friends would be happy she's finally got what she's always wanted.

When Lestrade had burst into the office Sherlock dragged Molly into, he and John had walked in on them in an intimate embrace. They weren't snogging, but John could tell that perhaps if they had been a minute longer, it was likely they would have found them doing  _that_  instead.

Confused, Lestrade demanded an explanation from the two. When none seemed forthcoming, he grew furious. "Answer me, damn it!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and looked about to speak, but Molly got there first. She moved herself away from the consulting detective but kept hold of his hand, receiving a squeeze from Sherlock.

"Greg, we're in a relationship. Sherlock and I…" she trailed off, looking up at Sherlock before continuing, "…Sherlock's my boyfriend." she said with a wide smile. The man in question tightened his grip on her and gave a curt nod in the detective inspector's direction in agreement.

To everyone's discomfiture, the Lestrade laughed. "You're joking right?" Seeing Molly's stricken expression, his grew dour, and he turned to John. "Did you know about this?"

The doctor shrugged, "Sherlock informed me he intended to court her." he answered truthfully. It was not as if Sherlock gave him a progress report about his and Molly's relationship.

The detective inspector glowered at his words. He turned to Molly, meeting her eyes with his. "No." He shook his head for emphasis. "Molly, just...this isn't a good idea."

Sherlock could no longer help himself. "What do you mean, ' _no_ '? Excuse me, Lestrade, but I believe you're forgetting that neither Molly nor I require your consent. Whether we choose to be in a relationship or not is none of your business!"

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. He ignored Sherlock, and turned to Molly instead. "Molls, I know you've had a crush on him for a very long time. But you know I made a promise  _to your father- -"_ he said the last three words slowly, emphasizing each syllable, "- - that I would protect you…don't do this!"

Molly's face fell. She reached out a hand and touched the detective inspector's shoulder. She spoke to him gently. "I know, Greg. And I'm very thankful for that. You can't keep looking out for me. Besides, you know Sherlock. You  _know_  him. You know he's a good man." She gave him a gentle smile, asking him for his support. She knew Sherlock, thought he would be loath to admit it, would want it too.

"It doesn't mean he won't hurt you." Lestrade eyed Sherlock as he spoke quietly, crossing his arms and staring icily at him. Sherlock returned the sentiment, shooting him daggers with his gaze.

John rushed to stand in between them, arms spread, ready to push them both back. "Boys, please."

An exasperated Molly burst out. "I'm sorry. Lestrade, but this is my life, and no one, not even you, can tell me how to run it. Don't treat me like a bloody teenager!" Her outburst had left everyone in the room in a stunned silence.

Lestrade seemed to deflate at her words. "Fine, Molly. If that's what you want. You're right, of course. I'm sorry." Giving Sherlock one last venomous glare, he turned and walked from the room, not bothering to close the door behind him.

"Molly…" Sherlock began, but Molly shook her head.

"I just…let's… let's get the statement over with... it's been a really long day. And I still have to get to work." She walked out, dejected, her hand on her nape.

Sherlock followed her closely. "Stamford found out about what happened, said he'll cover your shift for you." Molly nodded tiredly, grateful for the chance to get her bearings.

"I'll accompany you home later. We can order takeaway for dinner..." Sherlock continued, putting his hand on the small of her back.

Molly shook her head, and gave him a tired smile. "I think I'd like to have some time alone, Sherlock." She took his other hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. "I need to think."

Sherlock looked about to protest, but John, who was standing behind Molly, waved his hands wildly to get his attention and then shook his head pointedly, silently telling his friend to let the matter rest.

"Of course." Was all he said in response.

* * *

The door to 221B burst open to reveal a furious Sherlock, who ran up the stairs and into the flat. John followed quickly behind, a hand on his forehead, and the other on his waist.

"Sherlock, you need to calm down." He muttered, watching as his flatmate stomped about the sitting room. Sherlock brusquely took his scarf off his neck and threw it to the sofa, before doing the same to his coat.

Sherlock glared at him, not stopping, ruffling his hair in aggravation. "Don't tell me- -" he pointed to himself, speaking through gritted teeth, "- -to calm down, John. And don't you DARE- -"at this he pointed at the doctor, who was still standing by the door, "- - say that Lestrade was right! This is STUPID! I finally give in, finally let myself  _feel_ , and I find out that someone I trusted thinks so low of me as to  _forbid_  my attempts at a proper relationship!" he yelled.

John reached an arm out, gesturing for his friend to listen. "He's just protective of her, that's all. You told me he was close to Molly's father, and it seems to me she's a sister to him."

Continuing to pace, Sherlock shook his head, grinning madly. "No,  _sister?_  Really, John?" He gave a small, derisive laugh. "I saw the way he looked at Molly that ill-fated Christmas party you held here. Nobody looks at his sister like that. No..." he raised a finger in the air, shaking it in front of John. "He hates that Molly wants me and not him."

The army doctor gaped, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Oh, come on, Sherlock! This is Lestrade we're talking about! He's our friend. And don't say he isn't because he was one of the reasons you- -" he jabbed a finger to Sherlock's chest, "- -bloody jumped off a roof! Don't make up these...these motives just because he thinks you might hurt a friend he cares about."

Sherlock stopped his agitated movements then, his eyes boring into John's. "You agree with him?" he whispered dangerously.

John shut his eyes for a moment and took a breath before answering. "Look, Sherlock, you KNOW I think it's brilliant you and Molly are finally together. I mean, it's about time! And I've seen how you've been treating her differently, how she's good for you."

His hand strayed to his nape, rubbing it in his frustration before continuing. "But Lestrade doesn't know that: all he knows is you treated her nicely only when you need something, and how Molly fancies you too much to really call you out on it. When you look at someone like they're part of your family you want them to be safe, to be happy. I mean, look at how you are with Mrs. Hudson!"

He pointed a finger in the direction of the windows for emphasis. "You threw a man out the window several times for hurting her! Don't you think Lestrade feels just as protective of Molly? It doesn't have to be for the reasons you suppose them to be. I concede; he shouldn't have said those things to you, but I can understand why he said them, and so should you."

When he saw that Sherlock had calmed down slightly, he added. "Sentiment, Sherlock. It's not something you can quantify so easily; which is why I think part of the reason you're angry is because you wanted him to approve of all of this."

Though still wearing a mutinous expression, Sherlock muttered, "Then how do I fix this?"

John walked over to the couch and slumped down. "I don't know. I don't think there's even anything to fix, really. I think this is just a misunderstanding. Talk to him, maybe. And try not to be a git while doing it. You know he's been looking out for you. He's been as much an older brother to you as Mycroft."

* * *

Sprawled out on his bed, Sherlock fumed. He had been in the middle of a very important pronouncement when Lestrade and John interrupted, and had hoped to spend some time with Molly after the day's events.

 _If I had known how tedious this would turn out to be…_  he began, but then cut off his own thoughts at once. He took his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the photo John had taken of him and Molly at the hospital. He stared at Molly's sleeping face, and realized Lestrade had a point. He may feel strongly for Molly, but it doesn't mean he won't hurt her.

Sherlock shut his eyes and remembered Molly's words to him that afternoon.

" _We've only been together for a little while. I'd like to have you for longer."_

He wondered whether he had been foolish in pursuing her, in electing to persuade her to believe he was capable of this.  _I should have backed down when she expressed scepticism._  But his chest tightened at the thought, contradicting him. He knew that whatever happened next, he could only move forward. He may not be able to guarantee he'll never hurt Molly's feelings, but he swore that he'll never do so deliberately.

He hesitated, then sent Lestrade a text.

**We need to talk.  
Pub across from NSY.**

**SH**

A moment later, he received a reply.

**Bring John.**   
**Can't promise I won't punch you.**   
**You're buying BTW.**

**GL**

Surprised but pleased nevertheless, Sherlock shouted so that John can hear from his upstairs bedroom. "John! Get up, we're going out!"

"Christ, Sherlock! What is it now?" The long-suffering doctor called back.

A few moments later, John met him at the door to their flat, aggravated. He had been looking forward to getting some much needed sleep.

"Don't look at me like that. We're meeting Lestrade. Hurry up." Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf. "There's a free pint in it for you."

"Make it two, or I'm not going with you." John asked, shrugging his coat on. "Wait, does Lestrade know we're meeting him?"

Sherlock, who was already halfway down the staircase, turned an annoyed look up at him. "Of course."

"Your history would strongly suggest otherwise." The doctor closed the door behind him and followed his friend downstairs, eager for a drink. It was obvious to him that Sherlock's mood had lifted.

The consulting detective paused and eyed him curiously. "And you say this because...?"

"You are a man who's made it a habit of talking to someone long after they have left the room." John chuckled, and pushed past him out to the street. "It wouldn't be such a strain on the imagination."

* * *

**Am about to speak w/ Lestrade.**

**S** **  
**

.

.

**Are you sure you want to?**

**x M**

.

.

**I've brought John along.**

**S**

.

.

**Oh.**   
**Good luck. :)**

**x M**

.

.

**Promise me something.**

**S**

.

.

**What is it?**

**x M**

.

.

**You won't change your mind.**

**S**

.

.

**Of course not.**   
**I promise. S** **illy.**

**x M**

.

.

**I'll hold you to that.**   
**Also, I'm never silly.**

**S**

.

.

**Yes, you are.**   
**Sometimes. :)**

**x M**

.

.

**No, I'm not.**

**S**

.

.

**:)**   
**Thank you for doing this.**   
**Good night, Sherlock.**

**x M**

.

.

**Good night.**

**x S**


	12. Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock speaks, and Molly listens.

Molly woke up that morning still somehow tired and drawn. Sleep had not come easily, and when it finally did, it brought with it dreams made up of a chaotic mishmash of scenes from the previous two days. She kept reliving her goodbyes with Colin, her encounter with his father, Sherlock's rare display of emotion, and Lestrade's outrage at learning of her and the consulting detective's relationship.

She turned to peer at her bedside clock.

Six o' clock. _I might as well get up._ The pathologist didn't fancy another go considering she'd not had pleasant dreams.

 _Well, some of them were._  She amended. Although she did not particularly relish the thought of a scared and worried Sherlock, Molly warmed at the thought that he had been scared and worried for  _her._

She wondered whether telling him THOSE three words then had been the right thing to do, for even as she trusted that Sherlock had been sincere, she also understood how foreign the concept is to him.  _It's done. It's the truth. I guess I shall just have to wait and see._

Later on, Molly made some French toast and grabbed a cup of coffee, then headed towards her sitting room to settle on the couch in front of the telly. She'd brought her phone with her and hadn't checked it since the previous night, and so was unsurprised to find a few messages waiting.

The first one read:

 **Sorry about yesterday.  
** **Sherlock and I spoke last night.**  
 **Didn't punch him.**   **Don't worry.**  
 **I think he really means it, Molls.**

**GL**

Molly smiled, and opened the rest, seeing they were all from Sherlock.

 **Why do people insist**  
on getting drunk when it  
inhibits one's mental faculties?

**S**

**Case in point:**  
GL got so pissed  
He had to literally  
crawl into a cab.

**S**

**JW sat there loudly singing**  
'Auld Lang Syne', called Mary,  
& screamed his affections  
for her over the phone.

**S**

Molly giggled, imagining her friends inebriated, and a highly infuriated Sherlock Holmes along with them. Amused, she sent Lestrade a reply, telling him she understood, and apologizing for her outburst the previous day.

She was about to send a reply to Sherlock when a knock sounded from her front door. Molly clambered from her seat in the sofa and called out, "Who is it?"

"Sherlock." She hurried to open the door at this puzzled that he'd come over so early.

"What are you doing here?" she asked after she had let him in. Sherlock did not answer, only stood in the middle of the room with his hand clasped tightly behind his back and his head bowed. Molly watched, worried, but decided not to speak; she knew he would eventually let her know what he thinks. She grabbed the dirty dishes and brought them to the kitchen, throwing Sherlock a reassuring smile on the way.

As she set down the dishes in the sink, she was startled as a pair of arms snaked under her arms and encircled her waist. Sherlock then put his chin on her shoulder, letting out a content sigh as he did so.

 _So you like hugs after all, huh?_  Molly thought. She put up a hand to his hair, playing with his curls. "Is something the matter?" The consulting detective shook his head, closing his eyes as he did.

"Lestrade's come around." Molly continued, and took her hand from Sherlock's hair and began washing the dishes, his arms still around her. At this he nodded, then let out a sigh.

After a few more minutes, Molly finished the dishes and then turned her head to look at Sherlock. He had opened his eyes, so she merely raised an eyebrow at him in question.

It was only then that Sherlock spoke. "We haven't had a proper date."

This caused Molly to giggle, and Sherlock's arms tightened around her. "I didn't realize the situation was so humorous."

Molly shook her head. "It's not what you said. Well, it is, a bit. But I thought it'd be something grave, the way you've been acting."

Sherlock let out a deep breath then. "I've been thinking about when we should go on one, since you'd probably want to go back to work tonight, and..." he was interrupted by a series of barely suppressed yawns, "...and there's hardly any time left for restaurant reservations."

"Have you had any sleep?" He shook his head at this.

"Go then. Take the bed. I'll wake you up later before I leave for work." She turned and pulled herself off of him, then pushed him towards her bedroom. "Go!" she urged.

For once the genius didn't argue, and let himself be pushed, ambling slowly forward, moving only as she steered him around the room. When she had seated him on the side of the bed, Molly turned to go, but was stopped by a gentle hand on her wrist, making her heart jump.

"Stay." he stared up at her, "Please." He added, and her breath hitched. A blush spread over her collar bone and up her neck, racing upwards to flood her face. Sherlock pulled her hand until she was sitting on the bed beside him. He turned to face her before speaking, his hand still on her wrist.

"Very few things confuse me Molly Hooper." he began, his voice deep and a bit scratchy from lack of sleep. "Sentiment is one of them." he cleared his throat before continuing; "You told me yesterday that you love me. This is probably something I have already known for a long time, but have chosen to ignore due to my belief that it would only interfere with the work I have dedicated my life to."

Sherlock sat up and squared his shoulders then, as if bracing himself for something, a far off look in his eyes. "The day you saw through me, when you said you didn't count. That was the day I realized that you did, in fact. You do. And I started wanting to see...to really see...who you are. At first it was because I wanted to decipher you, to see what made you different and believed that when that was done..." He trailed off, shrugging, but Molly understood.

She nodded, waiting for him to continue.

When Sherlock resumed speaking in the early morning silence, his voice was gruff and he spoke rapidly, his eyes focused on her hands. "When I started learning about you, I also started wanting more. It's strange because there isn't anything logical about it, no reliable statistics exist to which I can compare this, and yet there it is, a... a feeling that was neither familiar nor initially welcomed, but there nonetheless. I cannot promise that I will be the kind of man who makes grand public declarations or the one who never forgets the important dates. I am the kind who disappears while busy on cases and who shoots the wall when bored. You said you don't want me to change, that you want me to grow, and maybe I can. With you."

He paused to look into her eyes then. "Molly Hooper, I've fallen in love with you."

It seemed to Molly that all the air had been sucked out of the room. She stared at Sherlock, unable to believe her ears.

"Molly?" he asked, worried at her lack of response.

This time, it was Molly who pulled him in.

She reached out her hand on his cheek and leaned in at the same time, meeting his lips. Her other hand went to the back of his head, sinking into his curls and caressing his scalp. She heard Sherlock groan, and felt him move nearer.

Sherlock lifted her so that she was sitting sideways on his lap, before letting his hands smooth up the sides of her torso. One hand reached up to cup her cheek while the other slid back down to settle on her hip, massaging it. He then gently nipped her bottom lip with his teeth and then took charge of the kiss, wanting to  _show_  her, to reassure her that he meant what he said.

He pushed her back so that she lay face up on the bed, and he hovered above her, trying to rein himself in, but unable to keep his lips apart from hers for too long.

Molly understood his hesitation and smiled up at him reassuringly. She brushed his cheek gently, and pulled him closer, her brown eyes shining.

The consulting detective lost all composure at the sight, and he gently tugged at Molly's plait so that it became undone, framing her face. He returned her smile and put his lips to her ear, echoing the action he'd done so many nights before.

"I mean it, Molly." He whispered, before trailing sweet little kisses on her jawline and down her neck. He leaned back and lifted his eyes to meet hers then. "I love you."

Overcome with joy, Molly simply nodded, receiving a wide grin from the consulting detective before she pushed down on her elbows and raised herself to meet his lips one more time.

Their first time together was slow and reverent, and they took their time getting to know each other, wanting to savour each little discovery they made, and committing it to memory. The room filled with sound; their mingled breaths, at times harsh intakes full of longing, at others sighs which were almost musical with their pleasure. And, incredibly, there was also laughter: both from their words, and from the relief that came with the realization that they were, truly, finally, something more.

* * *

The afternoon found them in a tangled heap. Sherlock had lifted himself to Molly's side and was lying on his front with his head burrowed in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, one leg in between hers. He wrapped an arm around her waist and felt as her lift her arm up and over it, rubbing his shoulder, while her other arm was trapped beneath his neck, her hand entwined with his own just above his head.

Sherlock turned his face towards her and smiled, receiving one in return.

"So," He he began, his eyes twinkling.

"So?" she asked, pouting her question.

He chuckled and squeezed her hip. "When should we go on that date?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So I've finished uploading this story here. ^_^ Please look out for the sequel: "Beyond"
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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